Chapter the Eighteenth A High Dive
The failure of their carefully-laid plan afflicted the smugglers with a numbness of dismay and stupefaction, and robbed them of all power to appreciate the success of the trick played on the revenue officers. Tonkin bitterly reproached himself for leaving the shipment of Penwarden to Doubledick and undertaking the seizure of John Trevanion’s guests. Moreover, honest and simple-minded as he was, a tiny seed of suspicion was beginning to germinate in his mind. Before John Trevanion came home, the freighting had been done by Tonkin on a modest scale in co-operation with Delarousse. Now, however, John Trevanion had taken the lead. For some reason, which none knew, and only Doubledick suspected, he had thrown over Delarousse, and did business with a rival and enemy of his in Roscoff. Having more capital than Tonkin, whose recent losses had indeed been crippling, he could buy more largely and employ more men, so that Tonkin found himself in a position of galling subordination. As Trevanion had said to Doubledick, the big man did not care to play second fiddle. He was beginning to wonder whether the jovial master of the Dower House was quite so good a friend as he seemed.
The escape of Penwarden was a blow, the more crushing because so mysterious. After church on Sunday, Tonkin and his fellows foregathered with the tub-carriers in the Five Pilchards, where Mrs. Doubledick attended to them in her husband’s absence. The young farm labourers had been in complete ignorance of the presence of Penwarden behind the stacked barrels. His projected deportation was the secret of Tonkin and a few trusty friends, who knew better than to run the risk of being betrayed by an informer. They were still anxious to guard their secret, and being unable to discuss the matter freely in the presence of the carriers, they made themselves so unpleasant that the latter presently betook themselves in dudgeon to the Three Jolly Mariners. But even when the important people had the taproom of the Five Pilchards to themselves, they were at a loss. In Doubledick’s absence no light could be thrown on the mystery.
“Do ’ee know wheer yer man be, Mistress?” asked Tonkin of the gaunt woman behind the bar.
“I do not,” she replied, “but ’a will come home-along in a day or two, to be sure. He loves his home, does Doubledick.”
“Well, you ought to know, if anybody.”
“Hey, my sonnies,” said a voice at the door, and Petherick entered. “I be come to jine ye in yer laughter and merrymakin’.”
“Then you be come the wrong road,” said Tonkin gloomily. “We be downcast and dismal.”
“Ay, mumchanced and mumblechopped,” added Nathan Pendry.
“You do surprise me! Never did I see anything that tickled my ribs so much as they two King’s servants lashed to the holy bell. I don’t care who the man is, ’twas a merry notion. But good now! I know what yer dark thoughts be. ‘T’ud make angels weep and wail, so ’twould. To think that Cuby’s ghost will walk never more!”
“Oh, Cuby’s ghost be jowned! If ye do know anything, tell it out without hawkin’ and spettin’, constable,” said Tonkin.
“Well, neighbour Doubledick be a lost soul this day, that’s sartin,” said Petherick.
“My Billy be dead!” shrieked Mrs. Doubledick, sinking into a chair and rocking herself to and fro.
“No, no, Mistress,” said Petherick. “It bean’t gone so far as that. Dry yer eyes, woman. He bean’t a corp, ’s far ’s I do know, but never will ye see un again, no, never.”
“Name it all, constable, don’t spin it out so long,” said Nathan Pendry. “Put the ’ooman out of her misery.”
“Well, I will. Neighbour Doubledick be this day in Rusco.”
“Dear life!” exclaimed Mrs. Doubledick.
“How do ’ee know that, constable?” asked Tonkin.
“I heerd it all wi’ my own ears. Seems as if Joe Penwarden was to go, but the voyage wer too much for his old aged stummick, so he and young Trevanion sent neighbour Doubledick instead.”
He then repeated what he had overheard at the window of the Parsonage, his audience listening in wrath and amazement.
“So ye see,” he concluded, “he dussn’t show his face hereabouts again, for they two will swear to him afore Sir Bevil, and neither might nor power can save un. Seems to me as ye’ve met your match in young Squire.”
This opened the floodgates of rage, and the room rang with execrations and threats of vengeance. At last Tonkin declared that he would sail to Roscoff next day, hear Doubledick’s version of the matter, and learn whether the innkeeper himself admitted the impossibility of returning from his exile. Meanwhile he bound all those present not to disclose their knowledge of what had happened. He felt that the ignominious failure of the scheme would make them all a laughing-stock, which was especially to be avoided now that a score of miners had been imported into the village by John Trevanion. The men loyally kept the secret, even Petherick restraining his gossiping tongue, for he had a wholesome fear of Tonkin.
Next morning, therefore, Tonkin sailed away in his own lugger, beating out against a stiff breeze. An hour or two later, Mr. Mildmay paid a visit in the cutter to the scene of the night’s events, seized the tubs still left in the smugglers’ den, broke up the windlass, and blocked up the tunnel leading to the well.
Next afternoon Dick and Sam launched their boat, and sailed out to fish at some distance from the point of the Beal. Meeting them on the cliff, Penwarden advised them to keep their eye on the weather. The sky was threatening, and the boat, while safe enough on a calm sea, had not proved her capacity to ride out a storm.
Sam appeared to be in low spirits. Usually talkative, he had scarcely spoken to Dick on the way from the house, and had indeed not been visible since breakfast time.
“What’s the matter, Sam?” said Dick, as he sat at the tiller, noticing the boy’s gloomy face as he rowed to assist the sail.
“Nawthin’,” replied Sam curtly.
“But there is. Your face is as long as a fiddle. Something must have upset you. What is it?”
“Well, if I must tell, I will. My poor heart be broke.”
“That’s bad. What broke it?”
“The Mistress.”
“My mother! What has she done?”
“’Tis not what she does, but what she says. Oh! ’tis terrible hard for poor folks in this world.”
“I agree with you. We are all pretty poor at the Towers.”
“That’s why I feel it. Some poor folks can have noble raiment, others can’t, and drown me if I can see the why and wherefore.”
“Don’t talk rubbish.”
“’Tis not rubbish. Hevn’t Mistress got a fine new sealskin coat? Didn’t she wear it to church yesterday? Didn’t she look like a queen, and make all the women’s eyes open as wide as saucers? And there was Maidy Susan, poor young thing, lookin’ as plain as a sparrer beside her.”
“Well, you wouldn’t expect to see a servant-maid as fine as the Squire’s wife.”
“Iss, I would so, when her might be. I showed they silks and satins to Mistress, and telled her I had broughted ’em for Maidy Susan. ‘No, indeed,’ says she; ‘quite unsuitable for a girl in her station o’ life.’ ‘Why for, please ’m?’ says I. ‘Because I say so,’ says she; ‘I never heerd o’ sech a thing.’ Be-jowned if I can see why. Pretty things be fitty for pretty females, and I don’t care who the man is, Maidy Susan would look as fine in ’em as Mistress do in her noble sealskin.”
“Fine feathers don’t make fine birds, they say,” remarked Dick with a smile.
“No, nor fine coats don’t make old women young and pretty. They only make ’em look fatter.”
“Sam, don’t be impudent.”
“Bean’t impedence, leastways, not meant for sech, as you know well. It be truth,” insisted Sam. “Can ’ee deny it? I axe ’ee, bean’t Susan a pretty maid?”
“She is, I own.”
“Well, then, there you are.”
This appeared to Sam a clinching argument. Dick laughed.
“I’ll speak to Mother,” he said. “Perhaps she will let Susan have a little silk for high days and holidays. But you know the story of the jackdaw that dressed up as a peacock and was pecked to death by the peacocks it went amongst?”
“Never heerd o’t, and I don’t believe it. Peacocks be sech silly mortals. Howsomever, if ye’ll speak to Mistress I’ll say no more, for she’ll do whatever you tell her.”
By this time they were far out in the bay. They cast their lines overboard, and caught one or two flat fish; but sport being very slow, and the wind increasing in force, after about an hour they decided to return.
Another boat, meanwhile, had put out for the same purpose. It contained Jake Tonkin and Ike Pendry. The two boats passed within a few yards of each other.
“Afeard of a capful o’ wind,” said Jake with a sneer to his companion, loud enough to be heard on the other boat.
“Ay, they’ll ’eave up afore they get ashore,” rejoined Pendry.
Dick paid no attention to them. Running in behind the Beal, which sheltered him from the wind, he found the sea in Trevanion Bay so calm that he began to wonder whether he had not been over-hasty in putting back. They landed, moored the boat, and carried their meagre catch to the Towers.
“They may jeer,” said Dick, as he steadied himself against the wind, which on the cliff-top blew with the force of half a gale, “but they’ll run in themselves pretty soon, you’ll see.”
Having handed the fish to Reuben, they left the house again, and made their way along the Beal, somewhat curious to see how the two fisher-lads were faring. Jake’s boat, an old tub, as crazy as that of Dick’s which had been destroyed, was tossing and rolling in a way that must have rendered fishing a very uncomfortable occupation.
“They’re a couple of jackasses,” said Dick. “The wind is getting up every minute. Look at that! That gust nearly capsized them.”
“I reckon they be showing off,” said Sam. “Ah! they’re putting back arter all, and ’twas time.”
The boat’s head was turned for home. Dick and Sam walked to the end of the promontory, whence the sea on both sides was in full view.
“’Twill be a noble sight to see ’em cross the reef,” said Sam.
“Oh, they won’t try that,” said Dick. “The tide is too low. You can see the rocks every now and again through the breakers. They will make for the fairway.”
The wind was now blowing with terrific force, the gusts smiting the boys, exposed as they were, like the fists of some unseen gigantic boxer. They kept their feet with difficulty. Sam’s hat was whirled away, and rolled and bounded along the Beal at the speed of a hare. The surface of the sea was broken by innumerable little white ridges, and at intervals one of these was seen to be the crest of a huge wave, which reared itself, and before it fell was torn into shreds of spindrift.
Jake Tonkin’s boat ran clear of the headland towards the harbour, and, having got what he apparently considered to be sufficient sea-room, he hoisted his lug-sail, and steered direct for the fairway. It seemed to the two watchers on the Beal that the wind had been maliciously awaiting this opportunity of mischief. A more than usually fierce gust ripped the sail loose; the boat staggered, spun round, and drifted broadside to the sea. The two lads in her seized their oars, and after great exertion brought her head once more towards the shore. But in a few moments one of them started baling, then resumed the oars, only to ship them almost instantly afterwards and bale out again.
When the sail was carried away, the boat was about a third of a mile from the spot on which Dick and Sam stood. Her progress towards the harbour had been extraordinarily slow, though the wind was behind her. Dick guessed that she had sprung a leak, and when the baling became continuous, he realised the extreme peril of her occupants. Every moment she was in danger of being swamped. He watched with excitement, not unmixed with anxiety. She drew gradually nearer, but with a sluggish heaviness of movement that bespoke her water-logged condition. Another twenty or thirty yards would bring her within the shelter of the reef, in which case the danger of being swamped would be over, unless the leak gained upon the lad energetically baling.
A shout from the left drew Dick’s attention towards the jetty. The lads’ plight had been perceived, and a large boat, manned by a crew of four, was pulling off to their assistance. If they could hold their own for five more minutes they would be taken off. But just as Dick, thus calculating the chances, turned from this momentary glance shorewards to watch the labouring boat again, a great wave broke over her, she disappeared, and the lads with her.
A quick look round, then Dick dropped to the ground, unlaced his boots, drew them off, and flung off his coat.
“Go to our den, Sam,” he cried, “and fling over the two barrels we use for chairs.”
“You be never going to——”
But Sam’s protest was unheeded and almost unheard. Dick was clambering down the steep face of the cliff. The fisher-lads could not swim; scarcely a man in Polkerran was more skilled than they; and it was plain that unless assistance came to them at once they must be drowned, for the boat, pulling out against wind and wave, could not reach them in time.
Thirty feet above the sea, and almost exactly over the spot where the boat had capsized, there was a narrow ledge. As a swimmer Dick was self-taught. He usually plunged into the sea from a rock a few feet above the surface; the dive he now prepared to take was at least five times as great as he had ever attempted before. Fortunately the fairway was clear of rocks, although the waves beat roughly against the almost perpendicular cliff. A momentary hesitation, then Dick dived off. He took the water cleanly, but, somewhat dazed by the violence of the shock, he went far deeper than a practised diver would have done. To himself, as to Sam, gazing at him horror-stricken from above, it seemed a terribly long time before he shot up to the surface.
But he emerged at last. Shaking the water from his eyes, he looked round for signs of the fisher-lads. Within twelve yards of him he saw the boat, bottom upwards, and a boy clinging to the rudder. A gust of wind whipped the spindrift into Dick’s eyes; for some moments he could see nothing more. But then, five or six yards away, between the boat and the cliff, he caught sight of an arm rising from the sea, only to disappear instantly. He struck out for the spot. In a few seconds a dark mass surged up almost beside him. Another stroke or two enabled him to get a grip upon it before it could sink again. Fortunately both for the drowning lad and his rescuer, the former was by this time unconscious. In the rough sea that tumbled about him Dick could scarcely have fought against the struggles of a frantic man. In a trice he turned the lad face upward, and, firmly grasping his collar with one hand, swam on his back with his legs and one free arm. Surely he could hold out until the boat came up! He heard the shouts of the men and the splash of the oars; it could not be far away.
There was a danger that he might be swept by the waves against the frowning cliff, and knocked senseless. To avoid this, he struck out furiously towards the middle of the fairway, where the empty barrels thrown down by Sam were floating. In a calm sea his strength might easily have endured the fatigue of supporting a dead weight, but he knew that he was being conquered by the tumbling waves, and the blinding, choking spray that swept over him, it seemed without intermission. Again and again he felt that he could never regain his breath. The struggle to do so weakened him far more than the muscular exertion. The dreadful conviction seized him that he, too, was drowning. But his grip never relaxed; even when a dazed and helpless feeling came over him, he kept the lad’s collar firmly in his clutch. Then he was dimly conscious of a quiet restfulness and content; and Sam, in frantic terror above, saw his movements cease, and felt an agonising certainty that his young master was lost.
When Dick came to himself, he found himself lying in the bottom of Nathan Pendry’s boat, within a few yards of the jetty. The rescuers had come up in the nick of time. Dick and the lad he had saved were hauled into the boat together, and the fingers of the former were so tightly clenched that for some time it was impossible to separate the two. The overturned craft had drifted within a few yards of the cliff, and the other boy still clung to it. He was taken aboard, and meanwhile two of the men used all the means they knew to restore the others to consciousness. Without waiting to secure the capsized boat, they pulled with all speed for the jetty, which was thronged with village folk, whom the news of the accident had brought in hot haste from their houses.
The dripping lads were taken out and carried to the inn, where Mrs. Doubledick had made up a roaring fire, and had blankets and hot brandy awaiting them. Sam, pale as a sheet, forced his way through the crowd at the door towards his master.
“Oh, ’tis good to see ’ee safe!” he cried, almost hugging Dick. “Hev ’ee swallered much?” he asked anxiously.
Dick was too weak to reply. He began to laugh childishly, for within a few feet of him, swathed in a steaming blanket, sat his old enemy, Jake Tonkin, even more feeble than himself.
“’Twas him ye did it for!” cried Sam indignantly. “No one could ha’ blamed ’ee if ye’d let the villain drown.”
Dick shook his head.
“Now, young Sam Pollex,” cried Mrs. Doubledick, “you be off! Maister Trevanion don’t want ’ee kiddlin’ and quaddlin’ about when he do feel bad. Just pick up his clothes out o’ that plosh o’ water and spread ’em on this chair-back. Then go. We’ll send him home-along in a cart or a wheelbarrow when he’s better.”
“Daze me if I go, Mistress!” cried Sam. “Here I bide till Maister be able to shail along, so I tell ’ee.”
“Let the chiel bide,” said Nathan Pendry. “They be like two twains in everything, mischief and all, and they ’m best not parted.”
“Iss, fay, my brother Ben was twain to me,” said Simon Mail, “and ’a quenched away when they took un from me.”
“Why, dear life now, neighbour Mail,” cried Mrs. Doubledick, “bean’t it true, then, that yer brother Ben was shot in the nuddick at some great battle in Egypt, or other furrin land?”
“True, he was; but he couldn’t ha’ been if he hadn’t been parted from I.”
“A-course not, ye chucklehead!” said Mrs. Doubledick. “If ye hadn’t been parted he would ha’ been talkin’ foolishness along with ’ee now. Off ye go now, neighbours all. The lads will do better wi’out ye, and there bean’t no need to send over to Redruth for a doctor.”
“I wish ’ee well, Maister Trevanion,” said Pendry as he went out. “Us do hate ’ee like p’ison, that’s true; but I don’t care who the man is, ’twas a brave deed, and that I’ll stand by, so theer!”
The village folk were somewhat divided in their opinion as to their future attitude towards the inmates of the Towers. The better sort, of whom Nathan Pendry may be taken as a representative, were so much struck by Dick’s rescue of Jake, that their feelings underwent a change. They were not at first very ready to show their altered sentiments openly, but the leaven was beginning to work. If Dick, who had been so much persecuted, they argued, had the generosity to risk his life on behalf of one of those who had most injured him, it was hardly credible that he should really be the spy and informer he was suspected of being. Others, however, would not agree that the family was less open to suspicion, so far as smuggling was concerned, because of a single plucky act. Their view was supported by John Trevanion, who, having heard of the incident, took care to drop seeds of depreciation in the ears of such of the fishers as he encountered here and there.
The former party received a notable accession on the evening of the rescue. Isaac Tonkin returned home. The first person he met when he set foot on the jetty was Nathan Pendry, who told him what had happened in his absence. Tonkin was so much surprised at the news that he did not wait to give an account of his discoveries in Roscoff, but hurried at once to his house, where, as Pendry had told him, Jake had been put to bed.
“Be ye feelin’ bad, my sonny?” he said with rough tenderness, leaning over the boy.
“Not so bad as I did in the water, Feyther,” Jake replied.
“’Tis good to hear, my son. You be safe as a trippet, right enough. And ’twas young Squire saved ’ee! Well, there’s norra man in the whole parish could ha’ done it. I reckon ye gied un a proper word o’ thanks?”
Jack did not reply.
“Did ’ee hear what I axed ’ee? A-course ye gied young Squire a good word for ’s kindness? Did ’ee, or did ’ee not?”
“I didn’.”
“Ye didn’! And why not?”
“Never did it come into my head.”
“Well, it better come into yer head now, and quick, or I’ll have to ding it in. Pull on your clothes, and go up-along this minute to the Towers, and say as you be tarrible ashamed o’ yerself for forgettin’ to say thank ’ee. Get on with ’ee!”
Jake had to get up there and then, and set off on his errand. He had not been gone five minutes before his father, who had been walking restlessly about, suddenly went down into his cellar and brought up a keg of brandy and a large canister filled with tobacco. Then he rapped on the wall, and hearing a faint “Hallo!” in answer, he shouted:
“Be that you, Ike Pendry?”
“Iss, ’tis I.”
“Come-along in; I want ’ee,”
When the lad entered, Tonkin handed the keg and canister to him, saying:
“Carr’ them things up to Towers for me, my son. Axe for Squire, and tell un they be a present from Zacky Tonkin, go along now.”
Ten minutes after Ike started with his load, Tonkin, as restless as ever, banged the table with his great fist, startling his meek little wife, and cried:
“Drown me if I don’t do it!”
“What, Zacky, my dear?”
“Go up-along myself and thank young Squire. Name it all, hain’t he saved our only boy, Betty? A man can’t do less than say thank ’ee, I don’t care who he is.”
He thrust on his hat, and set off in haste. At the top of the hill he overtook Ike, who, laden as he was, had walked slowly.
“Stir your shanks, Ike,” said he. “Here now, I’ll take keg; you keep canister.”
They went on together. At the Dower House they came up with Jake, who was shambling along, feeling anything but comfortable at the thought of the impending interview.
“What, slug-a-stump!” cried his father angrily. “Bean’t theer yet?”
“Seeming not,” said Jake. “I be tired.”
“Well, my son, ye’ll just step out a bit quicker, or I’ll have to take a loan of the Squire’s whip.”
All three now proceeded until they came to the Towers.
“Be Squire to home, neighbour Pollex?” asked Tonkin of Reuben, who opened the door.
“Iss sure; but I reckon he don’t want to see ’ee, Zacky Tonkin,” replied the old man.
“Maybe, but I want to see he, and ye can tell un so.”
Reuben departed. In a minute he returned.
“Squire says ye’re to step in,” he said, sourly. “For me, I’d shet the door in yer face, and well you know why.”
Tonkin and his companions were led to the living room, where sat the Squire and his wife.
“Well, Tonkin, what can I do for you?” said the Squire pleasantly.
“Nawthin’ as I know on, Squire, thank ’ee kindly. My respects, my lady.” He turned his hat awkwardly between his hands. “The truth is, Squire,” he went on, “I b’lieve I’m the feyther or an ungrateful young feller. I be real vexed to think he didn’ say a word o’ thanks to Maister Dick for what he done for un, and he hev got to say it now, or I’ll leather un. Med I see young Maister?”
“Not to-night, Tonkin. I sent him to bed, and there he’ll stay.”
“Then maybe ye’ll carr’ it for me, sir. Now Jake, make yer bob and say yer say.”
Jake touched his forelock, but stood in lubberly silence.
“What, can’t ’ee find yer tongue? Now, hearken to me, and say what I say. If you please, Squire——”
“‘If you please, Squire——’”
“I be truly thankful——”
“‘I be truly thankful——’”
“As Maister Dick saved me from being drownded.”
“‘As Maister Dick saved me from being drownded.’”
“Purticler as I didn’ deserve it.”
“‘Purticler as I didn’ deserve it.’”
“Good now! I mean it, sir, and so do he. And I’ve brought ’ee a keg of cognac and a tin o’ bacca—bought with honest money, Squire; and I axe ’ee to take ’em as a little small offering from a man who’s a feyther like as you be.”
“Thank you, my man,” said the Squire, his face kindling with pleasure. “I appreciate your thanks, and so will Dick: and I shall appreciate your gift, I assure you. Jake isn’t much the worse for his ducking, I can see.”
“And I hope Maister Dick bean’t either,” said Tonkin.
“Not a bit. He’ll be as well as ever after a night’s rest. Jake should learn to swim, you know.”
“And I woll, if Maister Dick’ll larn me,” said Jake suddenly.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the Squire, with a slight reserve in his manner. “You see, there has been some feeling lately——”
“See now, Squire,” interrupted Tonkin bluntly, “answer me a plain question, man to man. Did you, or anybody belongin’ to ’ee, ever spy or inform on we honest free-traders?”
“That’s a question you ought to be ashamed to put to me,” said the Squire warmly. “Do you think a Trevanion would ever do such a thing?”
“Well, no, I didn’ think so till—— Howsomever, I’ll say no more o’ that. I axe yer pardon, and I hope ye’ll let bygones be bygones, and that’s said honest.”
“With all my heart.” The Squire extended his hand to the smuggler, whose grip made him wince.
“That’s brave and comf’able,” said Tonkin. “And now I wish ’ee well, sir, and you, ma’am, and if so be as Maister Dick ’ll larn Jake to swim, I’ll be proud, and so will he.”
The Squire showed the three men out, and they returned home well satisfied with their interview. Tonkin was soon the centre of a group of his particular friends in the parlour of the Five Pilchards, to whom, after announcing that he would believe no more “’nation gammut,” as he put it, about the Squire and his son, proceeded to relate the issue of his visit to Roscoff.
“I hain’t brought Doubledick back wi’ me,” he said. “For why? ‘Cos he warn’t theer!”