Chapter II Monsieur De Fronsac
Jack was shown into a little snuggery, where he found a red-faced, blue-eyed gentleman sitting deep in a comfortable arm-chair, his legs perched on a smaller chair. His black hair was tied in a short queue; he had curly side whiskers: and he wore the full uniform of the Dorsetshire yeomanry—a tight red coat with a high stock, white buckskin breeches, and big Hessian boots that came to the knee.
“A young gentleman to see you, sir,” said the servant.
“How d’ye do, Cousin Humfrey?” said Jack, advancing with a smile and outstretched hand.
“Who in the world are you?” said Mr. Bastable, clutching the arms of his chair, his eyelids squeezed together oddly.
“Oh! I’m Jack Hardy. Mother said I was to be sure and call. My traps are coming after.”
“They are, are they? You’re a pretty cool young spark, aren’t you? I must take it, I suppose, that you’re my Cousin Millicent’s boy, eh?”
“Of course, Cousin Humfrey. She said you’d be glad to put me up for a day or two, if I reminded you what friends you and she were, I don’t know how many years ago.”
“She did, eh? Well, you’d better give an account of yourself. How old are you, and what are you doing in these parts? I don’t suppose you came all the way from London to remind me of your mother.”
“I’m sixteen, sir, and just appointed to the Fury—you know, the revenue cutter now repairing at Wynport. I’ve got a few days’ leave, so I’ve just walked over.”
“So I should suppose. Your boots look as if you’d walked through half a dozen horseponds on the way.”
“Only one, cousin,” replied Jack, laughing. “That was in helping a friend of yours, who tumbled over through walking backwards looking at a chimney on fire: Mr. Gudgeon, the farmer.”
“A friend of mine, eh? Well, not exactly,” said Mr. Bastable dryly. “So his chimney was afire.”
“Yes, though I must say he took it pretty coolly; didn’t seem to remember it when he got back into the house.”
“Oh! You went into the house, then?”
“Yes, he gave me some cider, and drank some brandy himself for the flutters. He’s not quite the shape for the flutters, cousin, is he? Looks pretty solid.”
“And he made himself agreeable, eh? You told him who you were, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes! And he as good as said he was glad the Fury was getting ready for sea. Luscombe’s getting a bad name for smuggling, it appears, and ’tis time some of us came along. Don’t you think so, cousin?”
“Quite time, quite time!” replied Mr. Bastable. Jack fancied he caught a twinkle in his half-closed eyes. “Father and mother quite well, eh? And how long have you been a king’s officer?”
“A couple of years, cousin. Of course I had to serve two years as a volunteer first; then two years ago I was put on the books of the Ariadne, second-rate frigate, Captain Bagot. Why on earth they transferred me to the Fury I can’t tell—just as the Ariadne was going out to join Admiral Nelson’s fleet, too. I call it disgusting.”
“No doubt they thought you’d be more useful to the revenue. Well, your traps are coming after you, you said? Get off those boots and I’ll introduce you to your cousins. I suppose they’re your cousins, if I’m one. Ah! here’s the first!”—as the door burst open, and a girl ran in. She wore a white muslin dress with a pink sash, and a chip hat was swinging on her arm. Seeing a stranger she stopped, and her cheeks flushed.
“Come, Kate,” said her father, “this is your cousin, Mr. Midshipman Hardy, come to pay us a visit.”
Kate Bastable made the formal little courtesy of those days, to which Jack returned his best bow.
“I came to tell you dinner is nearly ready, father,” said the girl.
“Goodness alive, and I haven’t got out of my regimentals yet! Run and send your mother here, Kate; she must say which room your cousin is to have. We dine earlier than you fine London folks, my lad. You’re a good trencherman, I’ll be bound.”
“I’m pretty sharp set after my walk, cousin, and we fellows can usually do our duty with knife and fork.”
“As well as in other matters, eh?—catching smugglers, for instance. Well, come along; we’ll find my wife and see what she can do for you in the way of slippers.”
Jack was perfectly satisfied with his dinner, and with his new-found relatives. Mrs. Bastable and he became good friends at first sight. She was a pleasant, fresh-colored woman of forty, quiet in manner and speech, but with a shrewdly humorous eye. Kate was fifteen. She said little, but took stock of her new cousin as he chattered at the dinner-table. The last member of the family was Arthur, a boy of twelve, who, Jack found afterward, was not nearly so shy as he looked. An only son, he had not been sent to school, but was tutored at home. The tutor formed the sixth at table, a slight man of about thirty, with a very swarthy skin and intensely black eyes, good features, and a glittering smile. He was introduced to Jack as Monsieur de Fronsac, a Frenchman of a noble house. He had emigrated a few years before, and settled in England as a teacher of languages and mathematics. Monsieur de Fronsac bowed and smiled when the introduction was made, and said that he was charmed and delighted to meet an officer of the king’s so excellent navy.
Jack found that he was expected to do most of the talking. His cousins plied him with questions about the latest news in London. What was happening in India? Had Spain declared war? What did the people in London think of the chances of a French invasion? Jack was equal to the demands made upon him.
“Oh, as to India,” he said, “a day or two before I left we got advice that that Mahratta fellow, Holkar, had invaded our territories and General Wellesley was after him. He’ll soon settle his hash. And Admiral Keith is going to have a shot at those flat-bottomed boats that Boney has got at Boulogne. They’ll never cross the Channel, not they. Praams they call ’em: miserable tools; a storm would knock ’em to pieces; they can’t hug the wind; and the eight-pounder they’ve got mounted aft is a fixture, so that if we laid a small boat alongside, the gun would be useless, and they’d only have musketry to resist with. And the poor wretches on board get so seasick if there’s the least swell that they lie about groaning in the hold, too weak to lift a musket. One of ’em was captured last year by a gun-brig of ours; she’d got a little leeward of Boulogne and couldn’t get back, and our brig had her by the heels as she was steering large for Calais. Our fellows don’t believe old Boney intends to send ’em across at all, but only wants to frighten us. By George! I wish he would, though. We’d make ducks and drakes of his praams, there’s not a doubt about that.”
“But they might row over in a calm,” suggested Mr. Bastable; “then our cruisers would be helpless.”
“Why, if they did, cousin, there’d be a chance for you. I’d like to see the yeomanry cavalry dashing at ’em as they landed, sabers out, cut and thrust, ding-dong, over you go. Oh, it won’t be so easy as Master Boney imagines. Don’t you think he’s off his chump, cousin?—Beg pardon, Cousin Sylvia, I mean cracked; that is, mad—why, ’tis said he’s had a medal struck to commemorate his invasion; his own precious head on one side and a figure of Hercules strangling the sea monster on the other. The sea monster’s us, you know, Monsieur. And he’s got the words ‘Struck at London, 1804,’ on the thing—isn’t that cool cheek? Better have waited till he got to London—don’t you think so, cousin?”
Thus he chattered on, amusing his relatives with his frank boyish confidence, and especially pleasing Monsieur de Fronsac, as it appeared, for the French tutor was constantly showing his teeth as he smiled.
“It is good to hear,” he said once. “I like it. I do not lov dis Napoleon; truly he is a monstair.”
“Makes a breakfast of babies, don’t he?” said Jack.
“That’s rubbish, of course,” said Mr. Bastable. “But he’s a monster all the same, as Monsieur says; and I warrant if he does manage to escape you blue-coated gentlemen of the navy he’ll find us redcoats ready to meet him.”
Monsieur de Fronsac retired immediately after dinner.
“Gone to scribble poetry,” said Mr. Bastable with a smile, when the door was shut. “He’s a decent fellow, and knows a heap of mathematics. I fancy he must have been crossed in love, for he’s always writing poetry about the moon or the trees or the sea—so Arthur says, for he never shows his stuff to me. Now, we’re early birds here, Jack. We’ll play a rubber with the ladies, if you please, and then to bed.”
At breakfast next morning Mr. Bastable was in particularly good humor. He had been out early, so he said; there was nothing like a ride before breakfast for freshening one up and improving one’s appetite.
“By the way, Jack,” he added, “when I was out I heard that the smugglers made a capital run last night—the first of the season.”
“The villains!” cried Jack; “under my very nose!”
“Taking advantage of the Fury’s being laid up for repairs, you see. But no doubt you’ll put a stop to it when once you get to work—eh, Jack?”
Jack fancied there was something quizzical about his cousin’s smile as he said this, and wondered whether the squire was “smoking” him. But he answered cheerfully:
“We’ll see, cousin. I don’t know what sort of man Lieutenant Blake is: only saw him for the first time yesterday; but if he’s anything of a goer we’ll give the smugglers a warm time, I promise them.”
“And how will you set about it, cousin?”
“Don’t know, for my life!” said Jack with a laugh. “But there are forty ways of catching flies, and about the same number of tying knots; and we’ll find out a way, you may be sure. By the by, cousin, can you tell me how to get to the cottage of an old tar named Joe Gumley? I had a chat with him yesterday as I came here, and I’d like to look him up.”
“Yes, I can tell you. He’s a tenant of mine. But he won’t see you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. He won’t see you. He lives by himself and never admits a visitor. He’s most unpopular with the village folk, and has to tramp to Wynport to sell his garden stuff.”
“Why don’t they like him?”
“Ah, well! The truth is he’s an oddity, a very queer fellow.”
This explanation by no means satisfied Jack, and he made up his mind to visit Gumley as he had intended. The sailor’s cottage stood some distance farther along the cliff. After breakfast he set off alone toward it. Within ten minutes he came to a stout wooden fence tipped with nails, and so high that he could only just see over it. Then the view of the cottage itself was hidden by a mass of bushes and trees, the foliage of which, though tinged with autumn brown, was still thick. There was a gate in the fence, but no latch and no bell.
“An ‘I’m-the-king-of-the-Castle’ look about this,” thought Jack. He lifted his cane and dealt the gate several smart raps. Immediately he heard a dog rushing down the garden, barking angrily. Standing on tiptoe he peered over, and saw an immense bulldog, thick-set, broad-chested, with an enormous and most ugly head, showing his teeth viciously. The moment the dog caught sight of Jack he redoubled his barking and dashed forward against the fence, as if furious to get at him.
“Good dog, good dog!” said Jack soothingly. “What’s the matter with you, you son of a ten-pounder? I say, Gumley—ahoy! ahoy! Gumley!”
He raised his voice to a singsong, and sent the call rolling toward the cottage, rather enjoying the din made by himself and the dog, with a hundred echoes from every dell and hollow in the cliff. In a minute or two he saw the sailor stumping round the bushes, his head bare, his shirt open at the neck, a spade in one hand, and in the other a little square board.
“Oh, ’tis you, Mr. Hardy, sir. I was digging turnips at the back. Lor’, sir, all Luscombe will know you’ve bin here, with this terrible row and all.”
“I don’t care if they do, and it was your dog that made the row.”
“A good dog, sir. Living alone by myself, you see, I need a watch-dog. Come in, sir, come in.”
He had removed a padlock, drawn two bolts and loosed two bars on the inner side, and thrown the gate open. Jack stepped into the garden, keeping an eye on the bulldog, which had ceased to bark as soon as Gumley appeared, but walked slowly round and round the visitor, sniffing at his legs as if choosing the best place for a bite.
“There’s no cause for alarm, sir—leastways not while I’m on deck. I’d best introduce you proper like, then you’ll be safe any time, fair weather or foul. This here’s Comely; and this is Mr. Hardy of the Fury: twiggy-voo, as the mounseers say? Now pat him, sir.”
Jack felt a little uneasy, but knowing that it is best to put a bold face on it, whether with dogs or men, he stooped and patted the massive head. With an expression that seemed to him more sinister than ever, the dog stuck out a red tongue and licked his hand.
“Now all’s snug and shipshape, sir. Comely’s your friend for life.”
“Queer name that.”
“True, sir. It was like this. I had a notion of calling him Handsome, ’cos handsome is as handsome does, and he does most uncommon handsome. But thinking it over between watches, as you may say, it seemed like poking fun at the poor beast that couldn’t hit back, and I cast about for a name that would mean the same but not quite so strong. I tacked about for a time without catching a fair breeze, sir. Then all at once I remembered a word in my Bible: ‘black but comely.’ Comely’s a good name, thinks I, and his muzzle’s black, and my name’s Gumley, so Comely it shall be: and Comely it is, sir. We’re a pair, I can tell you, Comely and Gumley.”
“A capital match,” said Jack laughing. “But I say, why do you barricade yourself in like that?” Gumley had replaced padlock, bolts and bars. “Any one would think you were making ready to stand a siege.”
“Well, sir, I won’t say ’tis to be ready for Boney’s landing, and I won’t say ’tisn’t.”
He was now stumping up the path toward the cottage, and said no more. Jack saw that he did not mean to enlighten him, and changed the subject.
“I say, Gumley, why didn’t you help Mr. Gudgeon out yesterday? You went on and left me to do it.”
“Ay, ay, sir. The truth is, Mr. Gudgeon and me bean’t, so to say, on speaking terms.”
Jack felt that there was something puzzling about all this. Gumley was not popular with the villagers, Mr. Bastable had said; the old sailor had confessed to a feud or at least a coolness between himself and his neighbor on the opposite cliff. There was an honest look about his weather-beaten face; he did not seem to Jack morose or ill-tempered. What was at the bottom of this strange attitude of antagonism, shown by the man’s somewhat elaborate defenses? Well, after all, it did not matter to Jack; his leave would be up in a few days, and then his duty would take him to sea.
He sat for some time in Gumley’s trim little parlor, where everything bespoke the handy Jack Tar, chatting about sea life in general and the Ariadne in particular. Then the talk came round to Jack’s new vessel, the Fury, and brought up the question of smuggling.
“Mr. Gudgeon said that a good deal goes on about here,” said Jack, “and by George! my cousin, Mr. Bastable, told me that the villains ran a cargo ashore only last night. I suppose he met the riding-officer as he went for his morning canter. Did you hear anything of it?”
“Not a word, sir. I keep myself to myself.”
“Yes, Mr. Gudgeon said much the same thing, I remember. But I suppose you hear talk in the village sometimes?”
“Never bin into the village since I gave up fishing, sir. I get all my victuals from Wynport, and often don’t set eyes on the village folk from week-end to week-end, except at Church at Wickham Ferrers on Sunday.”
“Why you’re quite a hermit—almost as bad as Congleton.”
“True, sir, but I’ve never bin crossed in love, ’cos I never seed a maid I fancied afore I lost my leg, and there’s ne’er a maid would take a fancy to a poor chap with a stump like this. And I’m afeard of going like Congleton, sir.”
“Yes, but, Gumley, never mind about that. Tell me straight out, man; are the people in Luscombe below there smugglers or not—the whole crew of ’em, I mean?”
“Well, since you put it plain, sir, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of ’em think a sight more of French brandy than of Jamaica rum.”
“That’s no answer, you old rascal. Well, I’m going down to the village to have a look round. I saw some neat little smacks at the jetty yesterday, and one of ’em put out pretty smartly, too: was uncommonly well handled.”
“Well, sir, you be a fine, mettlesome young gentleman; but if so be as I might advise you, I’d say keep your weather-eye open. If so be they are a smuggling lot below—well, they won’t be exactly main pleased to see a king’s officer.”
“Bless you, they won’t know me. I’m not in uniform, you see. Nobody knows who I am but my cousins and you and Mr. Gudgeon.”
“True, sir; and me and Mr. Gudgeon keeps ourselves to ourselves, to be sure.”