Chapter XVIII The Battle of Binsey Cove
“Ah! Patience is a monument, as brother Sol used to say. Tombstone I’d call it, ’cos this here waiting about in the cold’ll be the death o’ me.”
“True, Mr. Babbage. It bean’t Christian, let alone decent, to keep us poor fellers waiting here.”
“Avast your jabber, Mudge. It bean’t for the likes of you to grumble when ’tis a matter o’ dooty, and love your neighbor as yourself. ’Tis a wonderful fine night, coldish, nat’ral for the time o’ year. Mr. Hardy didn’t make the weather, lads.”
Ben Babbage, with a boat’s crew from the Fury, lay off Totley Point, about a mile and a half west of Luscombe. It was about ten at night. They had been for two hours resting on their oars. A steady breeze blew from the west-sou’west, and a slight swell rocked the boat gently. Save for an occasional pull to keep her head to the wind the men had nothing to do except wait and watch; and Babbage, however he might grumble himself, was the last to permit grumbling in others.
But it was certainly a tax on their patience to wait hour after hour for a lugger which was slow to appear. Everybody was tired of inaction, and hoping for a signal of recall, when a shape loomed out of the blackness, passed on the starboard side of the boat, about two cable lengths away, and disappeared shoreward.
Babbage lifted a dark lantern from the bottom of the boat; Turley and Mudge stretched a sheet of tarpaulin between him and the shore. Then Babbage, facing out to sea, and keeping the lantern at such an elevation that its light should not fall on the water, rapidly opened and closed the shutter, sending one flash to windward.
“Things is a-going to happen, mates,” he said, as he replaced the lantern. “The owdacious moment is at hand, as brother Sol used to say.”
Again they waited, but now with keen expectation. In ten minutes, which seemed hours, a dark shape appeared in the offing. Babbage making a bell of his hands, sent a low whistle across the water; an order was given on the approaching vessel; the steersman put up the helm, and in a few seconds the other was alongside.
“All well, Babbage?” said Jack, in a low tone.
“Ay, ay, sir.”
A rope was thrown from the cutter and made fast in the bows of the boat. Another brief command; the steersman put the helm down, and the cutter, with the boat in tow, followed in the wake of the lugger. At nightfall she had crept in to within two miles of the shore, and sending out the long-boat as a scout, had hove to, lest her mast should betray her.
In ten minutes the cliffs were dimly visible, and Jack recognized the jagged gap at the top that served as a landmark in steering for the cove. The cutter headed straight for the gap. There was a shout from far up the cliff; the Fury had been sighted by the lookout. His call was answered by cries from the beach. On the cutter all the men lay ready with musketoon, pistol, and cutlass, except the few who had been told off to run down the sail when the word was given, and make the cutter fast to the lugger when she came alongside.
Jack’s heart beat more quickly than usual; he felt excited, and anxious, too, for he knew that the whole crew of the lugger, probably quite as strong as his own, would be ready to repel boarders. If they were joined by the Luscombe men who were receiving the smuggled goods he would be greatly outnumbered. Everything depended on the handling of the men, and knowing how desperately smugglers fought when brought to bay, Jack felt the seriousness of the position. What would the issue be?
While the boat’s crew had been waiting in the cold, strange things had been happening at Gumley’s cottage.
Gumley’s method of guarding De Fronsac was to make a temporary kennel for the dog outside the window of the front room in which the prisoner was lodged, and a shakedown for himself by the door. He felt that he could not properly intrude upon De Fronsac, who was a person of quality. But he looked in at intervals to see that he was safe, on these occasions calling Comely into the room, to guard against any attempted surprise.
De Fronsac had recovered the use of his tongue after he reached the cottage.
“I protest, I say it is a scandal, an infamy, to shut me up as if I vere a t’ief. Vat right have you? Tell me dat—you—you—”
“Gumley, my name, sir. I’ve got my orders—in the king’s name.”
“Vell, I vill complain to de squire; I vill make to punish you—you—Gomley!”
“Orders is orders, sir. I can’t say no more.”
Gumley himself was somewhat anxious about his charge, for, not expecting such a drain on his larder, he had only his usual provisions for the week, and did not feel at liberty to leave the cottage and procure more. Thursday passed, Friday, Saturday, and still he had heard nothing from Jack. When Sunday came, there was only a half loaf of bread and a rind of cheese left, and these had to be shared among the two men and the dog.
On the second day De Fronsac began to beguile the tedium of confinement by writing poetry. When Gumley looked in at him on one of his periodical visits the Frenchman said:
“You have not a bad heart. You obey orders of—of—of a monstair. Vell, I read you vat I have now written about anoder Monstair—de great villain Monstair vat call himself Emperor of de French! Listen! You vill like it.
“‘De sky vas blue, de sea vas green,
All beautiful for to be seen.
Vy den am I not gay and glad?
Alas! de Monstair make me sad.’
“Dat is good beginning, hein?”
“Reyther on the miserable side, don’t ’ee think, sir? For myself, I like a rum-tum-tiddlum rollicum-rorum sort o’ thing.”
“Ver’ vell, I write you someting of dat kind.”
Gumley heard nothing more of this generous offer until Monday evening. Then, when he went into De Fronsac’s room to explain with apologies that he had no more food, the Frenchman said:
“No matter not at all. Vizout doubt some vun vill come to-morrow. Be so good as give me a candle. I vish to write de poesy I speak of.”
Gumley saw no reason for not humoring so harmless a hobby, and brought the lighted candle. But a couple of hours later he was awakened from his sleep at the locked door by a smell of burning. He soon satisfied himself that it came from the prisoner’s room, and opened the door.
“Ha! I see you!” said De Fronsac. “I am almost burnt alive. I am writing my poesy ven—voilà! de candle overfalls and burns a hole in de table-carpet. See it! I put out de fire, easy; but it make much smoke. I fear it vake you; pardon, my good Gomley.”
“Granted, sir, ready. If I was you I’d go to sleep now and do your writing stuff in the morning.”
“So I vill,” was the response. “Pardon! I vill not vake you again.”
Gumley returned to his shakedown and was soon fast asleep.
Nearly two hours later he was wakened by a growl from the dog outside. He got up, opened the outer door, and found Comely trying to get up to the shuttered window of De Fronsac’s room.
“Don’t like his poetry any more than me, don’t ’ee? Come in. We’ll tell him ’tis time he was abed.”
He closed the door when the dog had entered, and together they went into the prisoner’s room. There was still a good deal of smoke in it—but no Frenchman.
“Ahoy!” cried Gumley.
But the dog made a dash back to the front door, and, when Gumley followed and opened it, rushed growling down the garden, where he was brought up by the high fence. Seizing his cutlass, Gumley stumped as fast as he could to the gate.
“Chok’ it all!” he muttered. “This is what comes o’ losing a leg in the king’s name.”
It took some little time to draw the bolts and unlock the gate, and when the old sailor got out into the road the fugitive was out of sight. But Gumley thought he heard a man running down the cliff path to the village. Without hesitation he started in pursuit, whistling Comely to his side. Never had that wooden leg moved so fast; but with all his exertion his pace did not exceed that of a quick walk. He was half-way down the path when he heard shots in the distance. Hurrying still more, he came to the village just in time to see a group of men rushing out at the other end, and caught the words “Sandy Cove!”
“Fire and brimstone!” he muttered. “This is a desperate go, Comely. Come on, my lad.”
And he stumped on gamely through the deserted street.
Meanwhile there had been brisk doings at Sandy Cove. When Jack judged that he was only a couple of cable-lengths from the lugger, he cast off the long-boat with Babbage and his men. They, resting on their oars, allowed it to drift slowly in while the cutter disappeared into the darkness.
A few moments later Jack gave the word. The sail was run down. A round shot from the lugger whistled across the Fury’s bows. Another few seconds; then, amid furious shouts, the cutter came against the larboard quarter of the lugger with a bump that caused the men on both craft to stagger. The Fury’s bowsprit fouled the lugger’s shrouds and hooked fast. Instantly half a dozen grapnels were out, and the two vessels were closely interlocked.
There was a deafening discharge of small arms from the deck of the lugger, but as most of the Fury’s men were lying down awaiting the order to board, and the volley was fired at random in almost total darkness, hardly any damage was done. But the master of the lugger was clearly a man of action, for the echo of the shots had scarcely come back from the cliffs when he gave a loud order in French, and the smugglers swarmed over the bulwarks, intending to jump on to the deck of the cutter a foot or two below.
“Fire!”
The word rang out sharp and clear above the shouts of the Frenchmen. Their dark forms stood out clearly against the starlight; they were only a few feet from the muzzles of the Englishmen’s muskets; and when at Jack’s command the volley flashed, the front line of the smugglers disappeared as if struck by a thunderbolt.
With a loud cheer the English sailors, dropping their muskets, seized cutlass and pistol and dashed through the smoke, each man eager to be first on the enemy’s deck. They needed no encouragement; most of them had a score to pay off for their defeat at the same spot in the previous autumn. While the Frenchmen were still half stunned by the scorching fire and the loss of so many of their comrades, Jack’s men gained a footing on the deck.
But now the French skipper’s voice could be heard rallying his crew, and the boarders were met by a serried mass armed with pistols and boarding pikes. And among the Frenchmen there was now a sprinkling of Englishmen, for the smugglers on shore had rushed over the gangway to their comrades thus hotly beset. Now a furious hand-to-hand fight raged about the lugger’s stern. Great was the clamor as steel clashed on steel, pistols barked, hoarse voices roared encouragement or defiance, wounded men groaned. Again and again Jack and his men were flung back by sheer weight of numbers against the lugger’s bulwarks; again and again they rallied and forced the enemy across the deck. No room here for fine weapon-play; men cut and thrust at random, met, grappled, flung away cutlass and pike to set to with nature’s own weapons. Many a Frenchman fell under the sledge-hammer blows of British sailors’ fists.
Jack had no clear recollection afterward of the details of the fight. At one moment he found himself leading a rush of his own men, pressing the enemy back foot by foot until only a last desperate effort seemed wanting to drive them overboard. Then would come a check; a hoarse shout from the skipper, whom Jack by and by distinguished in the mêlée—a huge fellow of reckless courage; the tide turned, the smugglers rallied gamely, and Jack and his men, stubbornly as they fought, were borne back and back, losing inch by inch the ground they had so hardly gained.
It was at one of these desperate moments that Jack heard at last the sound for which, throughout the struggle, he had been anxiously waiting. From the forefront of the lugger came a sudden rousing British cheer. There was a rush of feet in the rear of the smugglers, and in a second, as it seemed to Jack, the deck in front of him was clear. Ben Babbage had arrived. Carrying out orders given him previously, he had brought the long-boat unseen to the starboard side of the lugger, and, before the Frenchmen were aware of his presence, he was on deck, with Turley, Mudge, Folkard, and half a dozen other trusty shipmates.
Beset now in both front and rear, the Frenchmen lost heart. Suddenly they made a rush for the gangway connecting the lugger with the land, and swarmed helter-skelter across, not a few stumbling over the edge and falling souse into the water.
“Huzzay! huzzay!” shouted the panting Englishmen, as they saw the enemy in flight.
But they were answered by a loud and confident cheer from the beach, and in the momentary silence that ensued they heard the rapid tramp of a large body of men hurrying over the shingle. Immediately afterward they saw the fugitives halt, and rush back, largely reinforced, to the gangway, led by the indomitable captain. On they came, tumbling into the water three or four of the Englishmen who had started in pursuit and were making for the shore.
The gangway, consisting of four stout planks laid side by side, was wide, and gave foothold for a throng at once. Jack and Babbage collected their men at the lugger’s bulwarks to meet this new attack. And the former, amazed at this sudden turning of the tables, was still more amazed to see beside the French skipper the slighter form of Monsieur de Fronsac. Even at the moment of recognition De Fronsac’s pistol flashed; the bullet glanced off Jack’s cutlass within an inch of his body, and embedded itself in the mast behind him.
The two forces came together with a shock. Babbage dropped his cutlass and flung his powerful arms around the skipper. They swayed for a moment, then fell together with a tremendous splash into the water. De Fronsac had dropped his pistol, and made for Jack with a cutlass. Jack parried his furious cut, and before he could recover replied with a rapid and dexterous thrust that found the Frenchman’s forearm. With wonderful quickness De Fronsac shifted his weapon from the right to the left hand, and, shouting encouragement to the men beside and behind him, pressed forward indomitably.
At the same moment there was a rush of feet from the bows of the lugger. Her bowsprit came within easy reach of the rocky ledge, and a number of the smugglers had sprung on to it, scrambled along, and flung themselves on the flank of the defenders. Turley and others at Jack’s right turned to meet this new danger; but the enemy had gained a firm foothold on the foredeck, and the fight once more became general.
Jack, fighting grimly with Mudge and Folkard at the head of the gangway, felt with a dreadful sinking at the heart that the tide of battle was turning overwhelmingly against him. It seemed only too likely that he must either take to the cutter and escape, or remain to be killed or captured. But at this moment there was a sudden uproar at the far end of the gangway; the cries he heard were unmistakably cries of dismay. The throng of men pressing from the shore to the lugger wavered; their rear was being attacked; the preventives must be upon them! So sudden and unexpected was the onslaught that they lost their heads; their confidence changed to panic, and as one man they made off, springing into the shallow water to right and left, and scurrying away into the darkness.
“Have at ’em, Comely! Have at ’em, my lad!”
The words rang clear above all the din; and ever and anon came a short yelping bark—the unmistakable war-cry of a bulldog. Jack felt a wonderful lightness of heart as the sounds came to him out of the dark. Then the press in front of him melted as by magic, and through the gap so quickly made stumped Gumley, wielding his cutlass like a flail, and shouting with the regularity of a minute-gun:
“Have at ’em, Comely! Have at ’em, my lad!”
Two men remained on the gangway, refusing to be intimidated by the tumult in their rear; nay more, adjuring the fugitives to stand fast. One was Monsieur de Fronsac, the other Kit Lamiger, the chief Luscombe smuggler, father of the lad whom Jack had fought.
The uproar, the flight, the appearance of Gumley and the dog, all happened in such rapid succession and amid such a clamor that to Jack the events seemed to take place in one crowded moment. As the last of the panic-stricken smugglers jumped sidewise from the gangway on to the rocks, De Fronsac, hearing Gumley’s voice behind him, took a rapid step forward in a last desperate endeavor to dispose of Jack. But the middy marked his purpose. There was no time for deliberation. The Frenchman, wielding his cutlass as well with his left hand as with his right, made a fierce cut at Jack. The next moment he threw up his arms without a sound and fell backward across the gangway into the space between the lugger and the rocks. Jack’s blade had pierced him through.
Meanwhile Kit Lamiger had found himself seized below in the vise-like grip of Comely’s jaws. Struggling to free himself, he fell into the arms of Gumley, who, with a cry of “In the king’s name, shipmate!” swung him round, threw him on to the shingle, and bade the bulldog watch him.
The fight was over.
“Ahoy, Gumley! Come aboard!” shouted Jack.
Gumley stumped across the gangway, and this was drawn on to the lugger’s deck. Jack intended to work the vessels out for a little distance until there was no chance of being attacked except by boats, for he knew that he was still outnumbered. But just as he was preparing to cast off there came a loud hail from the beach, and immediately afterward Mr. Goodman rushed up at the head of a force of preventive men.
“Just in time, Mr. Hardy!” panted he.
“A little late, Mr. Goodman,” replied Jack. “I expected you some time ago. The fight is over.”
“Dash my buttons!” cried the mortified officer. “’Tis my confounded ill-luck. I should have been here, but I got another note a few hours ago that I had to attend to.”
“Anonymous, Mr. Goodman?”
“Yes, anonymous as usual, hang it all! I came up when I heard the firing. I see you’ve got the lugger, sir. Our scheme worked out to the letter.”
“To the anonymous note, eh, Mr. Goodman? Well, we’ve good news for the admiral to-morrow. And as you’ve a good number of your men here, I’ll go ashore and step up to the Grange. I want to see my cousin. Turley, where’s Babbage?”
“Never seed him, sir, since he went overboard with the French skipper.”
“Well, I must leave you in charge, then. The poor fellow’s drowned, I fear.”
“No, sir,” shouted a voice from the beach.
“Who’s that?”
“Me, sir, Babbage as was.”
“All sound?”
“And fury, as brother Sol used to say. Me and the French skipper fell overboard together, me on top. He drownded hisself, sir, ’cos he wouldn’t let go. When I come up, some o’ they fellers bowled me over like a ninepin, and my senses was fair knocked out o’ me. Next thing I knowed I heard you a-saying I were drownded, sir. Not so, nor never even seasick.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re safe. Come aboard. We’ll see what damage is done here, and then I’ll go ashore, and we’ll get a doctor from Wickham Ferrers to attend to the poor fellows who are wounded.”