Chapter the Twentieth The Last Deal
For a week or two there was a lull in events. One day the Squire received a letter from John Trevanion’s attorney, demanding that he should give up the property of his client which had been feloniously abstracted from the abandoned mine. The Squire swore, a rare occurrence with him, and sent Dick with the letter to his own lawyer in Truro. Dick returned with a piece of news that staggered his father. The attorney had died suddenly a few days before. He was the holder of the mortgage on the Towers and the Beal; it was almost certain that his executors would demand payment of the advance. For the first time the Squire was faced with the absolute loss of his ancestral home. He waited some days in torturing suspense: then the dread letter came. The amount of a hundred pounds must be paid within a month.
The Squire had not even a hundred shillings to spare. In deep distress of mind he walked to Truro to consult another lawyer, and see whether the bond could not be renewed or transferred. He applied to a young solicitor who had recently set up business in the town, and who undertook to do what he could. The Squire placed in his hands also the letter he had received from John Trevanion’s attorney.
A correspondence ensued between the two men of law, with great ingenuity of argument and ample quotation of authorities on both sides. It did not terminate until the precise question in dispute was no longer of importance. Meanwhile the Squire retained the silks and satins.
With the approach of Christmas the vigilance of Penwarden and his superiors became incessant. At that season there was a great demand all through the countryside for the wares of the free-traders, and unless precedent was to fail, many a bale and keg would be landed on the coast without paying dues to the King’s Government.
One dark night, Tonkin arrived in his lugger at Lunnan Cove, a few miles south of the village, with a fine cargo freighted jointly by John Trevanion and himself. Contrary winds having delayed him, he arrived several hours later than had been arranged, and found that the tub-carriers, evidently tired of waiting, had gone away. He dropped the tubs overboard in the usual manner, taking their bearings carefully, and returned for them on the following night. To his surprise and bitter rage, when he explored the bottom with his creeps, a strong force of tub-carriers waiting on the shore, he failed to find a single tub of the cargo so carefully laid. All had vanished. If he had been on the spot a few hours earlier, he would have seen them hoisted one by one into the revenue-boats, and conveyed to official sanctuary at St. Ives.
The smugglers were furious. Some one must have betrayed them. Occasionally there were traitors among them, but rarely, for the fate of an informer, if discovered, was of such a nature as to deter others. When they returned to the inn to drown their disappointment and talk over the occurrence, Doubledick shrugged.
“What about yer fine friends at the Towers now, Zacky?” he said.
“Good sakes! How could ’em know?” cried the exasperated fisher.
“Oh, you simple soul! Didn’ I see yer Jake a-fishin’ along wi’ young Squire only yesterday?”
“Rabbit it all! Do ’ee mean to say ’tis Jake that split? Why, daze me, the boy didn’ know about it hisself, Doubledick; we kept it so close.”
“Well, I only tell ’ee what I seed. ‘T ’ud be hard to b’lieve sech a miserable dirty thing o’ Jake, I own it. In course he never done it, bein’ a Tonkin; ’twas only my little bit o’ fun. But I don’t care who the man is, they folks up at Towers hev turned preventives; norra one of ’ee woll make me b’lieve different.”
“Dear life! Won’t Maister John be in a gashly passion!” said Simon Mail. “He had more nor you in it, Zacky, I b’lieve!”
“Iss, fay, he did. Neighbour Doubledick loses least; ’tis a mercy for ’ee, neighbour.”
“So ’tis, Zacky,” said Doubledick. “Ah! I was right to bide quiet a while arter that journey to France. But name it all, I bean’t goin’ to bide quiet for ever; I’ll take a share in the next, be-jowned if I don’t, and I hope them above will gie us better luck.”
“Ay, Maister John will be in a rare passion,” repeated Simon Mail. “He be spendin’ money so free that ’twill be a blow to him, to be sure.”
“True,” said Pendry, “and spendin’ for the country, too. Do ’ee think, now, as Boney will come to these parts, neighbour Tonkin?”
“I wouldn’ think so myself, but you never can tell,” replied Tonkin. “’Tis a little small place, wi’ no great riches to tempt un; but that may be a reason for ’t. We’ve no forts nor cannons nor sojers to defend us, and Boney may choose the place according; ’t ’ud be easier to land here than at Weymouth, where the King and all his high generals sometimes be.”
“What I say is, Maister John be a fine feller,” said Mail. “‘Tidn’ every gentleman as ’ud do what he be doin’. Why, he’ve had a dozen men from Trura riggin’ up iron shetters to his winders, and a cart come t’other day wi’ firelocks and pikes, and I seed him only yesterday marchin’ his miners up and down in front o’ the house, every man of ’em wi’ a terrible weapon o’ some sort; and when he shouted, up went firelock or pike, and seein’ the guns all pointin’ at me, I run off as hard as my poor legs ’ud move, for I didn’ want to be hurted, not I.”
“Ay, and I seed Petherick goin’ up to Dower House wi’ a noble bell under his arm,” said Pendry, “and when I axed un about it, ’a telled me ’twas to rig up in the roof, to gie the word o’ warnin’ to the whole village if Boney was spied wi’ all his horses and men.”
“And what’s more,” added Mail, “he hev took three men-servants into house, purgy fellers they be too, so’s to hev a army to lead agen the enemy. They’ll eat a deal o’ meat, they will, and sartin sure he’ll be in a passion at losin’ money over this crop.”
“Hee! hee!” laughed Doubledick. “It do make me laugh, neighbours, to think o’ Maister John leadin’ a army agen Boney. I’ll go up-along to-morrer and see this practisin’ wi’ pikes and firelocks; ’twill do me good, hee! hee! They miners had better turn sojers out and out, for they’ll never get tin or copper enough out o’ the earth to pay for their keep.”
Doubledick strolled up the hill next day, and stood with a look of keen enjoyment on his face as a score of miners drilled under Trevanion’s direction. At the close of the exercise he accosted Trevanion.
“’Tis a noble sperit, to be sure, Maister John,” he said, “but daze me if I think yer new sojers and yer iron shetters will keep out Boney and his thousands and millions. He’s a tarrible feller, by all accounts.”
“’Tis every man’s duty to defend his country so far as he is able,” said Trevanion coldly, beginning to move away.
“Iss, sure,” said Doubledick, keeping pace with him; “and it must cost ’ee a tidy bit o’ money. But I be afeard it bean’t much good. Why now, s’pose ’twas not Boney, but one of his simple generals, or no sojer at all, but a plain feller like me—or like Delarousse, say. I say, s’pose Delarousse took it into his head to hev his revenge for the trade he’ve a-lost, to wipe off old scores, as ye may say—jown me if he’d be flustered by a passel o’ miners or a shetter or two. Howsomever, ’tis not for me to say. Ye do know more about the arts o’ warfare nor I, I reckon.”
“Your tongue runs on, Doubledick,” said Trevanion with a hollow laugh. His annoyance was plain to see: the fellow was presuming on the secret between them.
“Iss, I be forgettin’ what I come to say,” said Doubledick. “The folks at the Towers be at their tricks again, seemingly.”
“If I knew it!” cried Trevanion furiously. “If you catch young Dick, or that wretched follower of his, spying, I hope you’ll take care they don’t do it again. You squared the officers on your own matter; can’t we keep them quiet on the trade?”
“Ah! that’s different. To jail me wouldn’ put money in their pockets, like seizin’ a cargo. I’m afeard ’t ’ud take more nor the crop’s worth to put ’em quiet on that, Maister. But there now! we allers do hev ups and downs; maybe the ups will beat the downs in the end.”
That Doubledick’s philosophy was well founded was signally demonstrated a few days later. Though the loss in case of failure was severe, the profit of a successful run was so high that success once in three times was accounted satisfactory. To recoup the recent loss another cargo was freighted in Roscoff, Trevanion, Tonkin, and Doubledick taking equal shares. The spot selected was the mouth of the little creek four miles north of the Towers, where Dick had launched his home-made boat. Only a few men, on whom the confederates placed absolute reliance, were admitted to the secret. The goods were run ashore in complete safety, and each of the three freighters pocketed a considerable profit.
Elated by this success, another run was arranged a few days subsequently. In this Trevanion had the largest share, Tonkin ranking next, Doubledick, Pendry, and Mail being involved to the extent of a few pounds each. The place was changed, a small cove a little nearer the village on the south side being chosen. Mr. Mildmay had been called to a spot ten miles distant, and everything promised success. Tonkin’s lugger anchored off the rendezvous, the goods were “rafted” ashore, and the carriers had all shouldered their burdens, when a dash was made on them by preventive men aided by a troop of dragoons, and, after a sharp fight, only one man got away with his tubs.
John Trevanion never appeared on the scene of operations. He was always kept well informed as to the time and place of the runs, but it was his constant policy to remain in the background. On this occasion, when he learnt of the second failure within a week, he was exasperated beyond endurance. He rode down to the inn, stormed at the smugglers, and having learnt that Mr. Mildmay had been summoned away by his own arrangement, merely as a blind, he declared that either Jake Tonkin or Ike Pendry had betrayed him to Dick, with whom they now occasionally fished. This accusation enraged the elder Tonkin, and the two men would have proceeded from recriminations to blows, if Doubledick had not stepped in between them.
A week passed. It was the Wednesday before Christmas Day. There had been some hesitation among the smugglers, after the last failure, whether to venture on what was usually the most important run of the season. At this time they found customers for their wares much further afield than usual. But the prospect of large profits, and the perpetual fascination of the trade, overcame their doubts and fears, and early on this Wednesday morning, before it was light, Tonkin sailed off in the Isaac and Jacob for Roscoff. Once more he had equal shares with Trevanion, no others being concerned in the run except as helpers.
On Wednesday evening, Doubledick left the inn, and walked along the southward bank of the stream in the direction of the church. He had left word that he was going to see Petherick about a Christmas dinner which the Vicar was accustomed to give to the children and young people of the parish, in a barn upon his glebe. He spent an hour or two with Petherick in his cottage near the church, received from him the Vicar’s orders for squab-pie (a hotch-potch of mutton, apples, onions and raisins, with sugar and seasoning), “figgy pudden” (which is Cornish for plum-pudding), and other delectables of the season, and having arranged with the sexton the commission to be paid him for passing on an order which he could have placed with no one else, he drank a parting glass and started ostensibly for home. It was a fine night, moonless but clear, with that crisp coldness in the air that exhilarates. Instead of walking along the road by which he had come, Doubledick struck off to the left into a lane that would bring him, after a long round, to the south cliff. There were no houses hereabouts, the church being at least half a mile from the nearest dwelling.
When the innkeeper came to the spot where the ground began to rise, he did not turn to the right, along the path that led to the bridge over the stream, and was the nearest way home, but trudged directly onward, puffing a little as he went higher. It was very dark, or he might perhaps have seen a figure silently stalking him. Every now and again he stopped to take breath and to glance in the direction of the village. At these times the shadowy figure dropped down behind a furze bush, and there waited until Doubledick, with a grunt and sigh, again went on his way.
Presently he came to Mr. Polwhele’s house on the cliff. He did not pass it by, nor approach the front door, but stole to the window, where a light shone through the blind, and gently tapped at it. In a few moments the door opened. Mr. Polwhele’s figure was for an instant silhouetted against the light from a hanging-lamp in the passage. Doubledick entered quickly, and the door was shut again.
The silent form of the second man was motionless and invisible in the darkness. But when the door was closed, it tip-toed swiftly across the grass, and if a third person had been in the neighbourhood he might have seen the head and shoulders of a fisher in strong relief against the illuminated blind. But there was no spectator. The fisher placed his ear against the glass, and remained in that posture for several minutes. Then he withdrew, muttering his disappointment, and posted himself behind a clump of gorse a few yards away, where he could keep his eye on the door.
“Well, Doubledick,” said the riding-officer, when he had given his visitor a chair, “’tis to be, then?”
“Iss, sir, and a big thing too. Maister Trevanion hev £200 ventured, and Tonkin the same.”
“And where is it to be this time?”
“At the creek, sir, same as time afore last. They did so well then that they couldn’ think of a better place, the den bein’ broke up.”
“And when?”
“Thursday night, or ye med say Friday mornin’, accordin’ to the wind.”
“They mean to run, and not to sink, I suppose?”
“Iss, sure, sir. Next day bein’ Christmas, ye see, they must hev the stuff carried off at once. I’d axe ’ee, sir, not to lay hands on the men; seize the tubs, in course, but I don’t want ’ee to do any hurt to the fellers.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can; but you know what soldiers are. They’ve been itching for months to fight Boney, and they want to keep their hand in, you know.”
“True, sir. Ah well! the carriers will run fast enough; ’tis only Zacky Tonkin and the rest I be afeard for; they’ll fight, ’tis sartin-sure.”
“You’re a thorough-paced scoundrel, you know, Doubledick,” said the riding-officer. “‘Pon my word, if it weren’t my duty to stop smuggling by hook or by crook, ’twould give me the greatest pleasure in life to see you tarred and feathered. I warned you, you remember. You’ll be caught one of these days, mark my words, and the money you’re heaping up won’t save you then, my man.”
“Hee! hee!” laughed Doubledick uneasily. “Name it all, was there any other way to save myself from jail? ’Tis a risk, I own it; it do gie me the creeps in the night sometimes when I think o’t. And be-jowned, sir, when you gie me the £50 for this job, I’ll pack up my traps and go into other parts wi’ my wife, and spend my old age in peace and quietness, if she’ll let me. Ye won’t stop me, sir?”
“Not I. ’Tis dirty work, and I’d rather fight the trade fair and square, ’pon my word I would.”
“’Tis the last time, then, for me. And now I must be traipsin’ home-along.”
Mr. Polwhele accompanied him to the door. On the step Doubledick turned and said in low tones, his words, however, being distinct in the clear night air:
“Ye’ll mind and not take Zacky, sir? I hain’t no fancy for blood-money.”
“I’ll do what I can. Good-night.”
He stood for a moment or two watching the innkeeper’s receding form, then turned to re-enter the house. But it happened that, in the very act of turning, he caught sight of a dark figure slinking away from a furze bush in Doubledick’s wake. He slipped into the house, turned out the lamps in the passage and the room, and in a quarter of a minute came out again, the darkness completely veiling his movements. With swift steps he followed the two figures down the slope, drawing near to the second of them under cover of the bushes. Having assured himself that Doubledick was being deliberately shadowed, he bent low, rapidly made a circuit, and concealed himself behind a clump which the stealthy pursuer must pass. As the man came abreast of him, wholly engrossed in keeping the innkeeper in view, Polwhele suddenly sprang out, caught his victim by the throat so that he could utter no more than the faintest gurgle, and bore him to the ground. Then, whipping out his pistol, he whispered:
“If you make a sound I will shoot you. Get up and come with me.”
Keeping a firm hand on the fallen man’s collar, he lugged him to his feet, marched him back to the house, and thrust him through the still open door, which he bolted behind him.
“So ’tis you, Jake Tonkin,” he said, as he relit the lamp.
“Iss, ’tis I. Let me go, Maister. Doubledick said ’twas I that split, the villain! Let me go. Scrounch me if the two-faced wretch don’t suffer for this!”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you go yet, my son,” said the riding-officer. “Now ’tis no good kicking or shouting. Remain quiet, and in a day or two you shall go, safe and sound. If you give trouble I shall have to deal with you as your folk dealt with Penwarden.”
Jake sullenly submitted. Mr. Polwhele gave him supper, then locked him into a room where the window was heavily barred.
“I am sick of this,” he thought, as he returned to his own room. “’Tis well Doubledick is going, or, by George, there would be murder.”
Next morning Sam Pollex, going down to the village to buy some raisins for a plum-pudding, overtook Susan Berry, John Trevanion’s housemaid. “Aw, Ma’am, ye do look wisht, sure enough,” said Sam, remarking the gloomy aspect of Maidy Susan’s usually merry face.
“And so I be, Sam,” she replied, “I wish I were to-home, I do.”
“Now that be cruel to we, daze me if it bean’t. Why do ’ee wish sech a cruel thing, Ma’am?”
“Why, to-morrer be Christmas Eve, and there’ll be no ashton fagot, and no egg-hot, like us have to-home.”
“What be they, Maidy?”
“Don’t ’ee know that? Why, the fagot be made of ash-sticks tied about wi’ nine twigs, and on Christmas Eve ’tis dragged to the Squire’s hearth and set ablaze; and then we do dance and jump for cakes, and dive for apples in a tub o’ water. Oh, ’tis sech fun, you can’t think! And then we drink egg-hot——”
“What’s that, if it be so pleasin’?”
“Why, silly chiel, ’tis cider and eggs and spice, made as hot as ’ee can drink it.”
“Aw, I know what that is. Mess is what we do name it, and as for fagot, we do call that mock, only it bean’t sticks, but a mighty block o’ wood. Squire don’t hev it now, since he hev been so poor. But why don’t ’ee axe yer maister if ye can do as ye do to-home?”
“I don’t know what be come to Maister. He be all hippety-like—looks as grave as a church owl, and him goin’ to be married, too. Pa’son be goin’ to pray for un fust time o’ Sunday.”
“Well, marriage be a fearsome thing, I s’pose. I seed a weddin’ up-along at church once, and theer was a little Noah’s flood o’ tears. I don’t think I’ll ever be married.”
“You be only a chiel yet. But there now, ’tis ever since Maister brought they great lubbers into house, and gied ’em guns and swords and I don’t know what all. Seems he be afeard o’ summat. Do ’ee think that monster Boney will come and eat the poor childer here, Sam?”
“Not he. He dussn’t do it. Don’t ’ee be afeard, now, Maidy dear. I’ll look out for un, and if I do see un I’ll ring our bell so powerful loud that all the brave men in the country will run to defend ’ee.”
“We’ve got a bell, too.”
“Not sech a banger as ours, I warrant ’ee. I do wish Squire were rich; then we’d hev the mock, and a great big figgy pudden, not a little small one wi’ half a pound o’ figs in it; and Squire would axe ’ee and all the country to come and join us, and ye’d come in yer fine new gown that I’m goin’ to gie ye. But theer, ’tis not to be, and ’twill only make us wisht to think o’t.”
“Look ’ee see, Sam: what a throng o’ folk! Whatever is the matter?”
They had come within sight of the village green, where a crowd of men, women, and children were talking excitedly.
“What be all this stoor, Ike?” asked Sam of the young fisher.
“Why, Jake Tonkin can’t be found nowhere. He wented up-along yestere’en to wood to get some mistletoe, and never come back.”
“Never come back?”
“No. His mother be in a tarrible state, Zacky bein’ away and all.”
“Sure ‘a didn’ go wi’ Zacky to Rusco?”
“Now that’s foolish. Didn’ I say ‘a wented for mistletoe yestere’en, and Zacky sailed off in mornin’.’
“So ’a did, to be sure. Here’s riding-officer; let us tell him.”
Mr. Polwhele rode up into the midst of the crowd.
“Well, neighbours, what’s to do?” he cried.
“Jake Tonkin be gone a-lost, Maister,” shouted a score of voices in answer.
“Lost, is he? He’s big enough to take care of himself, surely. Isn’t he with his father?”
“No, Maister,” piped a small boy. “Zacky Tonkin be——”
“Wisht yer clatter!” cried the child’s mother, catching him by the arm and shaking him.
“Who saw him last?” asked the riding-officer.
“Who seed un last?” repeated several voices. “Here be Un Tonkin; she’ll tell to we.”
“‘A wented last night to get mistletoe, sir,” said Mrs. Tonkin, with a pale, anxious face. “Never hev he stayed out all night afore, and I be afeard something bad hev come to un.”
“Oh, dear no! I can’t imagine anything of the kind,” said the officer, cheerily. “Don’t be down-hearted. He’ll come home-along by-and-by as large as life. I’ll ride to the wood and look about, and tell my men to search too. The young rascal! Up to some mischief, you may be sure. Go home, my good woman, and don’t distress yourself, and you folks, instead of standing gossiping here, go and hunt. Christmas Day is coming, you know, and we must have Jake back in time for the parson’s dinner.”
But the day closed without the discovery of any trace of the missing lad, and some of Mrs. Tonkin’s kind neighbours were already condoling with her on the loss of her only son, and assuring her that Zacky would be in a terrible way when he came home.
Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer supped together before setting out, the one by sea, the other by land, for the scene of the expected run.
“Would to heaven we had never come to terms with Doubledick!” said Mr. Polwhele. “Never again for me, Mildmay. Set a thief to catch a thief, they say, but I don’t know how you feel: I feel myself a mean rascal, old stager as I am at the game.”
“Honestly, I agree with you, and having Jake Tonkin mewed up here complicates things desperately. The moment he is let loose he’ll tell his father, and if I know the man, Doubledick’s life won’t be worth a snap of the finger.”
“Well, I warned him. I couldn’t foresee that Jake would come upon him in that accidental way. Scheme as we will, Mildmay, there’s a Power that overrules us all.”
“The best thing we can do now is to warn Doubledick. We’ve gone into partnership with the fellow, and we can’t in honour keep silence. Give him a chance to escape.”
“You’re right. I’ll call at the inn as I ride down, and tell him we have Jake locked up here. That will give him about twelve hours’ grace—time to clear away bag and baggage.”
When the lieutenant went aboard his cutter, Mr. Polwhele entered the inn.
“Where’s Doubledick?” he asked of the inn-keeper’s wife.
“He be gone along to Trura, Maister,” she replied, in her usual vinegary manner.
“What for?”
“Well, I don’t know as it be any business o’ yourn, but ’tis to buy some figs for the pa’son’s dinner.”
“Oh, well, if he comes back, tell him I want to see him first thing in the morning, will you?”
“He hain’t done nawthin’ agen the law.”
“I’m glad of that. Don’t forget my message.”
Mr. Polwhele left, firmly convinced that Doubledick had become suspicious and already beat a retreat.