Chapter IX Close Quarters
“Ah, Monsieur Jack!” said De Fronsac, with his agreeable smile; “I see you!” Jack laughed. It was only the Frenchman after all! His fear that it might be a smuggler was groundless.
“Yes; I’m too black for a ghost; ’tis a confoundedly dirty place, Monsieur. But how do you come here?”
“It is ver’ simple, ver’ simple indeed. I came out in de early morning, to promenade myself, and to compose a new sonnet on de Monstair. Behold! Vat do I see? De trap-door of dis tower is open; and, vat is dis?—assuredly I see steps mounting up to de very sommit. I am romantic, as you know, Monsieur; I love de bizarre. Can I venture myself? Dat old Congleton—vat a strange, an eccentric! I vould like to see de place vere he lived so solitaire. I climb; I have a little fear; but I make de ascension; I arrive. Ho! Dis, den, is de place. Vat a magnificent spot for to compose poesy! How beautiful de spectacle over de blue, blue sea! Magnificent! Glorious! Old Congleton had a genius, hein? But you, Monsieur Jack, how came you here?”
“The same way as you, Monsieur.”
“Ah! remarkable! You do not compose poesy in de early morning! You, I t’ink—and your good cousin t’inks—you sail on de blue, blue sea. De steps, too; surely dey are new. Never have I observed dem before. It is remarkable! Old Congleton—did he ascend de tower in dat manner? Or perhaps de steps are your vork; you invent dem, Monsieur Jack?”
“No,” said Jack shortly. He had never liked De Fronsac’s smile.
“Den of whom? Who invent dem? Dey demand much care and skill; yes, and industry. And for vat good to spend so much time? It vould be easier to valk up de stairs—if de door is open, of course dat is understood. But truly it is more romantic—it has more of de fun, as you English say, to mount on de outside, on little steps, from hand to foot, vun may say. Yes, and if in my youth I had not lived much among de sailors of my little village, assuredly I should not have had de courage to make an attempt so perilous. Ve sailors, indeed, have de firm leg, de fixed eye.”
De Fronsac’s eye was certainly fixed—on Jack, who had an uncomfortable feeling that the Frenchman was not only trying to find out from his manner what he had discovered, but was talking to gain time. He was resolving to cut the interview short, when De Fronsac, turning round suddenly, appeared to catch sight for the first time of the kegs.
“Ah! Voila! Ve have it! Dose barrels Monsieur Jack—you see dem? Dey are put dere vizout doubt by dese smogglairs. Ah! de rascals! Certainly ve must tell your good cousin, Monsieur Bastable. He vill know de means to take. He vill come, and take an inventaire. Certainly dat is vat ve must do. You come viz me; ve both tell him; ve go at vunce.”
“Very well,” said Jack. “We’ll go down. Will you go first?”
“I t’ink better you.”
“But I opened the trap-door. You won’t know how to shut it. You go first and I’ll see that it is properly closed.”
“Ver’ vell. It is a good idea.”
De Fronsac accordingly stepped on to the rope-ladder, and descended with a rapidity that seemed to show he had indeed had no little experience amongst seamen. Jack followed, closed the trap-door, and, as he went down, threw the iron steps one by one to the ground, where the Frenchman stood awaiting him.
“Now vat shall ve do viz dem?” asked De Fronsac, when Jack stood beside him. “It vas you dat discovered dem, Monsieur Jack. It is to you to decide vat ve do. It is right. You vill get great honor viz Monsieur Bastable, and de Lor’ Lieutenant, I t’ink you call de great man of de county.”
Jack did not wish to return the steps to their original hiding-place. It would be better, he thought, to hide them among the bushes. Accordingly with De Fronsac’s assistance he carried them into the thicket, and concealed them under a heap of dead leaves.
“Now ve go to de Grange?” said the Frenchman.
“Yes. We shall be rather early; Mr. Bastable will not be up yet.”
He intended to keep De Fronsac in sight until he had an opportunity of sending a messenger to the boat for a number of men to remove the kegs. He did not feel sure that the Frenchman’s visit to the tower was so accidental as he declared; and a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush.
They made their way through the undergrowth. With the frost the trees had now lost nearly all their leaves, which thickly covered the grass. Jack led the way, the Frenchman following a yard or two behind, maintaining a running fire of small talk, to which Jack replied with an occasional monosyllable. On the edge of the Hollow they entered a dense copse; there was a sudden rustle, and half a dozen rough-clad men with blackened faces sprang from behind the trees. Jack’s hand flew to his breast-pocket where he kept his pistol, but before he could draw it, De Fronsac caught his arm, crying:
“Save me, Monsieur Jack, save me!”
In spite of his apparent alarm, his grasp was so firm that Jack was quite unable to draw his weapon.
“Let me go!” he cried angrily, trying to shake himself free. But De Fronsac clung to him still more desperately, repeating his cry “Save me!” In another moment the men were upon him. Then at last the Frenchman let go his hold, and Jack found himself in the grip of two stalwart fishers. He struggled violently, but in vain, and in a few seconds more he was lying on the ground securely gagged and bound.
Then his eyes were bandaged, he was blindfolded, lifted, and carried rapidly for some distance. When he was set down and the bandage removed from his eyes, he saw that he was in an underground chamber, dimly lit through a barred grating in the roof. He tried to speak, but his words were choked by the gag.
“Now you listen to me,” said one of the men, whose voice he thought he recognized. “’Taint no good shouting or struggling. We’ve got ye firm, Mr. Hardy, king’s officer though ye be. So long as you give us no trouble you’ll take no harm. I’m gwine to ease that there gag; but if you shout, I’ll clap it on again and keep it there. That’s plain. Not that it be any good shouting, for there’s never a soul hereabout but the men who’ll guard ye.”
Jack was not so foolish as to spend his strength and his breath uselessly. He saw that he was helpless, and mentally vowed to be even with De Fronsac at the first opportunity. Suspicious before, he now felt certain that the Frenchman had deliberately trapped him, though he was amazed to find that the poetical tutor was a smuggler.
He remained throughout the day in the under-ground room, guarded all the time by one man, who sat by the grating and refused to be drawn into any talk. He was given some bread and cheese, and spirits and water to drink; and he spent the long hours in wondering what was to become of him, and in relishing beforehand the punishment he meant to administer to De Fronsac some day. To think of escape was vain; the men had evidently brought him down by a ladder, which they had drawn up when they left, closing and bolting the trap-door.
Who were they? Jack wondered. What was their real connection with De Fronsac? What would they do with him? What would Babbage and the men at the boat do when he did not return? What steps would Lieutenant Blake take when he found, as he must soon do, that his midshipman was missing? There was no doubt that the smugglers would promptly remove the kegs and the signaling apparatus from the Folly, and they would have plenty of time to get clear away before the boat’s crew became suspicious.
Late in the afternoon, as Jack guessed by the dimness of the light through the grating, he heard voices above. A heavy object was dropped on the floor; the trap-door was lifted, a ladder let down, and three men descended into the room.
“You be coming along of us,” said the man who had before addressed him.
“Look here, whoever you are—” Jack began; but he said no more, for the gag was roughly thrust into his mouth, he was once more blindfolded, and taken up the ladder. Then he was lifted from the floor and lowered into what he judged to be a large empty water-butt.
“Double up your knees, Mr. Hardy,” said the man. “You be going a little journey.”
There was no help for it. Jack feeling, as he afterward said, like a trussed turkey, sat crouching in the butt. The top was hammered on. Then the butt was lifted, carried a few steps, and hoisted on to a cart, which rumbled away. Jack was more angry than alarmed; the men evidently intended him no harm, or they would have knocked him on the head before this; but a water-butt, even though holes have been bored in its sides to let in air, is not the most comfortable of vehicles, and Jack was beginning to feel cramped and bruised and half-stifled when the cart stopped. The butt was lowered, not too gently; Jack was pretty well shaken up. But his former experience was pleasant compared with his sensations when the butt was rolled round and round on its lower edge, as he had seen draymen rolling barrels of beer. His head fairly swam by the time the teetotum movement ceased.
Then he heard voices again, and the creaking of tackle.
“I’m at the shore,” he thought. “Surely they’re not going to set me afloat!” The idea of going adrift in a water-butt made him feel seasick, till he remembered that it was impossible; the butt would fill with water, and if they wished to drown him they would not have taken so much trouble.
“Why, ‘Zekiel,” he heard a man say, “was your tub leaking?”
“A trifle, but we’ve bunged it up; ’tis all shipshape and seaworthy now.”
“’Tis mortal heavy, blamed if ’tisn’t.”
“Course it is; ’tis well-nigh full.”
Two or three low chuckles followed this sentence. Then the butt was rolled up what seemed to be a gradual incline, and dropped a foot or two with a bump that set Jack’s bones clashing.
“I’m on a boat,” he thought, “this is a voyage of adventure. Wish to goodness I could knock the top off this cage of mine and get a little air.”
As if in answer to his wish, a few minutes later, when he felt by the motion that the boat was putting out to sea, the lid was knocked off, the gag removed, and he drew a long breath of relief.
“I say, you men,” he said, in a husky voice that sounded like that of a stranger, “undo my eyes and hands, and let me out.”
There was no answer. He remained in his cramped and uncomfortable quarters for some hours, his repeated requests to be taken out passing unheeded. He began to feel very low-spirited. His body ached all over; his hands were still bound; and the butt was so narrow that he could hardly shift his position by an inch. His chief feeling was no longer rage against De Fronsac, but an intense longing to stretch himself. And then, strange as it appeared to him, he began to feel sleepy.
He was wakened from a half-doze by a loud hail, answered by a fainter one from a distance. A few seconds later he was released from the butt, and lowered, still bound, over the side of the vessel into a smaller boat. The boat did not go far; after a few strokes of the oars Jack felt a slight bump; he was unceremoniously hoisted again; and when at last his eyes and hands were unbound, and he had recovered the use of his sight, he found himself on board a lugger, whose crew had the swarthy faces and red caps of French fishermen. Greetings were exchanged between the men of the two vessels; then the French lugger made sail and stood out into mid-channel.
Jack was too much relieved at having recovered his freedom to mind where he was going. For a time he had not even the curiosity to ask; it was quite enough to breathe freely, and use his eyes and stretch his limbs. But night was drawing on, and when a meager supper was brought to him he asked in French for what port the vessel was making.
“No port, Monsieur,” replied the man with a grin.
“Well, what place, then?”
“Where the captain commands, Monsieur.”
“And where does the captain command? Speak out, man.”
“Only the captain knows, Monsieur.”
Jack gave it up. The man’s answers were perfectly polite, but it was evident he had received orders to tell nothing. Jack was taken below and made fairly comfortable. When morning dawned and he was allowed to go on deck there was no land in sight. But about midday a coast-line came into view, and in the evening, after beating about for hours, a strong land wind keeping the lugger off shore, the skipper managed to run into a little cove beneath high cliffs. It was a wild part of the Norman coast; there were no dwellings where the lugger ran ashore; and Jack had to tramp for several miles among the Frenchmen, over a rough road, before they arrived at a little fishing hamlet. Here he had to share a pallet bed in the auberge with one of the fishermen, two others occupying a similar bed at the other side of the room.
Jack and his bedfellow both found it difficult to sleep, and the Frenchman proved more loquacious than any of the others. He could speak no English save a few words, and his French was so broad a dialect that Jack, who knew little French at the best, was often at a loss to understand him. But he understood enough to learn that he had been kept in an underground chamber near the Hollow until the time came when a boat might put off, ostensibly for night fishing, really to convey the prisoner to the French lugger, the whereabouts of which would be known to the Luscombe smugglers. He had been carried on board the boat from the cart openly at Luscombe quay.
“Whose boat was it?”
“It was to a man—Monsieur might know him—who calls himself Goujon.”
“No, I don’t know anybody of that name. Who is he?”
“He is Goujon; that is all.”
“Is he a fisherman? What is he like?”
“I have never seen him, Monsieur. For myself, I have never put foot to land in England. But the captain knows him; ah, yes! the captain knows Goujon.”
And Jack at last went to sleep, wondering who Goujon could be.