Chapter the Twenty-Second John Trevanion in the Toils
With the aid of imagination’s magic boots we skip now from the Towers to the village, and see what was happening there.
The Isaac and Jacob lay alongside the jetty, in charge of half-a-dozen Frenchmen who lolled lazily about the deck. Nathan Pendry, who had steered the vessel into harbour, reclined, the picture of scowling discontent, against the bulwarks. Below, in the dark, reeking hold, trussed like fowls, lay Isaac Tonkin, Simon Mail, and two more of the most respected smugglers of Polkerran.
It appeared from Tonkin’s story, told many a time in after years to the breathless company in the parlour of the Three Jolly Mariners, that on arriving in Roscoff to purchase his Christmas cargo, he had been sought out by Jean Delarousse, whose customer he had formerly been. The Frenchman did not complain of Tonkin’s desertion, nor did he seek a renewal of their trade relations; his sole object was to persuade the Cornishman, by means of a heavy bribe, to deliver John Trevanion into his hands. Tonkin had his grievance against Trevanion. He felt sore at having had to play second fiddle to the younger man in recent smuggling transactions. But being an honest fellow, and loyal in grain, he rejected Delarousse’s offer with indignant scorn, and refused to believe what he understood of the tale poured into his ears in broken English, of a long course of deceit and fraud by which, as Delarousse alleged, Trevanion had enriched himself at his partner’s expense. The Frenchman had appeared to take his refusal in good part, and Tonkin, having freighted his lugger, put to sea on his return voyage, intending to run his cargo at the creek in the small hours of Friday morning as arranged.
The Aimable Vertu, Delarousse’s privateering craft, lay in Roscoff harbour. Tonkin was only a mile or two at sea, when he noticed that the privateer was coming up astern. This circumstance at first gave him no concern; Delarousse was doubtless setting forth on one of his forays. But soon he began to suspect, from the course held by the larger vessel, that he was being chased, or at least dogged. The Isaac and Jacob was a very swift vessel, and, laden though she was, her master hoped to be able to maintain his lead until nightfall, and then to escape under cover of the darkness. But he was not long in discovering that his lugger was no match in speed for the privateer. The short dusk of the December evening was closing down upon the sea when the Aimable Vertu came within range. The lugger’s armament consisted of one small carronade; the Frenchman had a broadside, which at a single discharge would have shattered the lesser craft to splinters. When, therefore, Tonkin was hailed and bidden to heave-to, he chose the sensible, indeed the only practicable, course, and obeyed. Delarousse and a boarding party took possession of the lugger; in spite of vigorous protests, Tonkin and his crew were bound and laid by the board, and, room having been made for them in the hold by the removal of several tubs, they were carried below. The two vessels then in company continued on their course for the English coast.
Favoured by the light mist that hung over the Channel during the night, the privateer escaped discovery by any English cruisers or revenue-cutters that might have been in the neighbourhood. When, however, she approached the rugged Cornish coast, the mist became a danger, and Delarousse had Tonkin fetched from below, and ordered him to pilot the vessels into Polkerran harbour. This the humiliated mariner flatly refused to do, persisting in his refusal in spite of the entreaties, curses, and menaces of his captor. He was carried back by ungentle hands to his noisome lair, and Pendry, a man of less backbone, proved to be more amenable to the Frenchman’s commands. Under his skilful pilotage, the lugger safely made the harbour, the privateer standing some distance out at sea, to watch events.
Now Tonkin, as has already been said, was a man of enormous strength, and as the pages of this history have shown, of great courage and resolution also. Nor was he lacking in prudence or common-sense; witness his ready surrender of the lugger when refusal would have meant his being blown out of the water. The same common-sense restrained him from struggling against impossible odds, both when he was trussed up, and afterwards when the vessel was manned by fifty or sixty well-armed Frenchmen. But so soon as he felt the lugger lightly graze the jetty, and knew by the rush of hurrying feet on deck that the great majority of his captors had gone ashore, he began to strain at his bonds. The Frenchmen had done their work of trussing capably enough, and, in the case of ninety-nine men out of a hundred, no doubt there would have been no danger of its being undone. But Tonkin’s muscles were hard as iron; he had the strength of a horse. After a few minutes’ straining, the rope about his wrists gave way; to release his legs was then easy. Delarousse having gone through his pockets before trussing him, he was without a knife, and had to loosen with his hands the ropes wherewith his comrades were tied. As soon as the first man was liberated, he set to work on the bonds of another, and within a few minutes after Tonkin had released himself, all the men were free.
Until the lugger reached the harbour, a number of the Frenchmen had clustered on the companion, and at its foot. When the time came for them to dash ashore, they scrambled in hot haste through the hatchway on to the deck, not thinking to batten down the hatch. As soon, therefore, as Tonkin was free, he rapidly planned how to escape from the hold with his men, when they had recovered the full use of their partially numbed limbs. He first felt about in the darkness for articles that would serve as effective weapons, and discovered a marlinspike, the hammer he used for driving spigots into the tubs, and several balks of timber that were employed for preventing the tubs from rolling. Each man armed himself. Long experience of smuggling had taught them to move quickly without noise, and, led by Tonkin, whose agility seemed in no wise lessened by his bulk, they swarmed swiftly through the hatchway.
The men left in charge of the vessel were leaning over the bulwarks, smoking, and envying their comrades at the inn, who, finding that the villagers showed no disposition to interfere with them, had seized the opportunity to refresh themselves at the expense of the innkeeper. Before the idle spectators on the deck could turn and form up to meet the rush, Tonkin and his men were upon them. A few swift, sharp strokes of the fishers’ nondescript weapons, and the Frenchmen were lying senseless on the deck.
Without the loss of a moment the Cornishmen leapt the bulwarks and scampered along the jetty. They were half-way to the inn before the careless sentinels in the parlour heard their footsteps and ran out to see what was happening. Forming in front of the door, they brought their muskets to the shoulder and delivered a scattered volley; but surprise, haste, and strong liquor combined to spoil their aim, and none of the fishers was hit except Simon Mail, who dropped his spike with a yell and sat down on the cobbles, hors de combat. The Frenchmen had no time either to reload or to retreat. The fishers, burly men all, charged straight at them and struck four to the ground, the other two taking to their heels and starting to run up the hill towards their leader. But as if by magic the neighbourhood of the inn was suddenly alive with figures. The fishermen and miners, who had remained hitherto cowering in their cottages, rushed out the moment they could do so safely. The fugitives were caught and held; a fierce crowd surrounded the others; and in a few minutes all six, bruised and battered, lay in a row against the inn wall.
Meanwhile Tonkin had dashed into the inn, pulled up the trap-door leading to the cellar, and descended into the depths. Doubledick, whom the sound of shots had caused to shake like a jelly, heard the heavy clump of the fisher’s boots, and shrank behind a large tun in a corner of the cellar. Unaware of his presence, Tonkin hastened to the opposite corner, where, in a cunningly contrived recess, lay a store of firearms and ammunition, kept there for use against the King’s officers when required. It was now to be turned to a more legitimate purpose. Tonkin seized as many muskets as he could carry, and hurried with them up the ladder, sending down for more those of his men who were not occupied with the Frenchmen. By the time these latter were secured, arms had been served out to the fishers who had escaped from the lugger, and to the most likely of the others. Then a compact body of thirty well-armed men followed Tonkin up the hill.
In order to trace clearly the course of events in that crowded hour of Polkerran’s history, it becomes necessary to glance at what had happened at the Dower House.
John Trevanion had become so accustomed to the smuggling operations, and it was so much a part of his policy to keep himself in the background in these matters, that it did not occur to him to rise early in order to learn what luck had attended the run which he had expected to take place at the creek, during the night or in the small hours of that morning. Having a perfectly easy conscience, and the comfortable expectation that he would be richer by two hundred pounds when he awoke, he slept as placidly as a child, and did not become aware that anything unusual was occurring until a repeated rapping at the door by Susan Berry, startled out of her wits, at length penetrated his slumbering intelligence.
“All right,” he called drowsily. “What’s the time?”
“I don’t know, sir,” cried poor Susan through the door. “Please, sir, there be a passel o’ men firing shots at the Towers.”
“Nonsense!” said Trevanion.
“’Tis gospel truth, sir. There be hundreds o’ men shoutin’ and hollerin’, and Cook be fainted dead away in kitchen.”
“Fling cold water on her, Susan. There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re shooting rabbits, I’ve no doubt.”
Trevanion’s thought was that the smugglers had been checkmated at the creek, and then, in their fury, had attacked the Towers, believing that their discomfiture was due to an alliance between the Squire and the revenue officers. His chagrin at the loss of his expected profits was not so profound as his delight in the thought that the enmity he had so carefully fostered was bearing such rich fruit. Far be it from him to interfere. But being now effectually awakened, he bade Susan to return to the kitchen, dressed quickly, and went to an upper window whence he could see something of what was going on. The Towers was, however, too far away, and the air too misty, for him to observe the operations so closely as he would have liked, and, curiosity and malicious pleasure overcoming his prudence, he determined to set forth and watch from a more convenient standpoint the mischief which he hoped was afoot. But wishing not to attract attention, he forbade his household to leave the premises, issued by the back door, and slunk round the inside of one of his high fences.
He had advanced about half-way to the Towers when he was startled to hear shots behind him, from the direction of the village. The sound brought him to a sudden halt, and a sickening misgiving seized him. Had the firing begun in the village, there is little doubt that he would have at once suspected the attack of which he had long been secretly in dread. But the fact that the Towers was being assaulted, so soon after the run was to have taken place, had thrown him off his guard. Now, in a flash, he remembered what Doubledick had said about his interview with Delarousse, and the misleading information given to the Frenchman. At the time, and since, he had been somewhat sceptical of the innkeeper’s veracity, but he began to think that his statement had, after all, been true. At any rate, it was the Towers that was in danger; the Dower House was at present safe; and after a brief pause of hesitation, he turned about and hurried back in the direction of his own house.
But he had scarcely taken half-a-dozen steps when, from behind a bush close by, there rose a red-capped figure, and Trevanion looked straight at the muzzle of a firelock. He stopped, and before he could collect his wits, two other figures joined the first. “C’est lui!” cried one of the Frenchmen. They were three of the sentries whom Delarousse had placed around the village, and were hastening to rejoin their leader in advance of the band now dashing up the hill. Trevanion was so much taken aback as to be incapable of resistance. All that he did when the men roughly seized him was to protest that a mistake had been made. “Ah! ah!” said one of his captors. “On ne s’en trompe pas; pas de tout.” The other two each took one of Trevanion’s arms, and marched him at a great pace through a gate in the fence towards the Towers, the third man bringing up the rear. What happened when Trevanion and Delarousse came face to face has already been related.
Maidy Susan, when Trevanion had left the house, showed herself strangely callous to the sad plight of Cook. Convinced that the Corsican Ogre had at last effected his long-threatened landing, she wondered in her simple soul why her master had not ordered the alarm bell to be rung, and the men servants to seize their arms and sally forth to defend their country. She peeped in at the kitchen, saw that Cook had recovered sufficiently to fan herself and scream, and then ran upstairs to watch what was going on. Only a minute or two afterwards, Trevanion broke from his captors and fled, the yelling Frenchmen in full cry behind.
“’Tis he! ’Tis Boney!” cried Susan.
She clutched at the casement frame for support, then suddenly flew downstairs like a young deer. It was she who held the door open, she who was forced back by the onrush of the infuriated Frenchmen. She crouched behind the door until the last of them, Delarousse himself, passed, then sped to the top of the house and began frantically to pull the bell-rope. Meanwhile the men whom Trevanion had been at such pains to drill had fled towards the village, and fallen into the hands of Delarousse’s sentries.
Trevanion darted along the passage and up the stairs like a fox seeking cover from the hounds. He flung himself into his room, slammed and bolted the door, caught up a pistol, and stood, panting from haste and terror, in the middle of the floor. He heard the loud and rapid tramp of his pursuers drawing near.
“Keep out, or I’ll shoot you!” he cried.
The Frenchmen laughed him to scorn. He was one; they were many. They set their shoulders to the door; the timbers cracked, gave way; a bullet whizzed harmlessly over their heads; and bursting into the room, they seized their victim and dragged him out and down the stairs again. Delarousse met them at the foot. Gasping for breath, he ordered some of his men to bind Trevanion’s arms behind his back and take him down to the lugger, others to set fire to the house.
“Ah! scélérat!” he bellowed. “Tu es à moi!”
Scarcely had the words left his lips when one of his band, who had been wounded by a shot from the Towers, hurried in with the news that a party of men were in pursuit of them. Confiding Trevanion to the charge of four of his most trusty followers, Delarousse collected the rest, and led them to the front of the house, which the newcomers were said to be approaching. At the end of the drive, where it branched from the road, was Tonkin with his company of fishermen and miners.
Tonkin had led his men up the hill with more haste than discretion. When they reached the top they were blown, and for some minutes had to moderate their pace. They could not see from the road what was happening behind the fences, and had come midway between the Dower House and the Towers, at the same time as Trevanion arrived abreast of them in the opposite direction. But the spectators on the tower had seen them. The moment Trevanion entered his door, the Squire, with Dick, Sam, and Penwarden, hurried down the stairs.
“Hang it, Dick, they’re Frenchmen!” cried the Squire, his fighting blood roused. “We must clear the rascals out.”
On reaching the ground he dispatched Sam to tell Tonkin that the Frenchmen were now going in the other direction, and hurried on with the others, intending to join the fishers at the Dower House. He arrived in time to see Tonkin’s men fire a volley at the Frenchmen at the windows. Little damage was done; Delarousse did not return the fire. He had achieved the object of his raid, and had no desire to enter into useless hostilities. Having taken stock of the enemy, he withdrew his men into the house, which was already filling with pungent smoke.
Tonkin halted his men for a moment in order to recover breath. It looked as if he would have to take the house by storm, a difficult task in the face of odds. But he was a man of bulldog courage, if no tactician. Smarting with the indignity he had suffered, and without stopping to think that Delarousse might have no designs except against Trevanion, he ordered his men to reload, and prepared to lead them to the attack.
Delarousse, however, had taken advantage of the momentary lull to withdraw his men through a long window in the wall of the house facing the village. The result was that when Tonkin, after so much delay as was necessary for his men to regain their breath and prime their muskets, led them at the charge up to the house and broke through the door, he found the house deserted, and the enemy in full retreat down the hill. He rushed after them, eager to overtake them before they reached the village. Some of his men had noticed that the house was on fire, but in their excitement none stayed to extinguish the flames, nor even to warn or assist the person who was still ringing the bell.
By this time the Squire, with Dick and Penwarden, skirting the grounds of the house, had joined Tonkin’s party, and was hurrying with them down the hill. The Frenchmen had more than a hundred yards start, and on the descent proved to be as fleet of foot as their pursuers. On reaching the first of the houses, Delarousse was met by the rest of his cordon, who, now that the matter had come to a fight, saw that they could employ themselves more usefully than in keeping guard. Now the Frenchmen turned at bay, and checked the pursuit with a scattered volley.
“Empty your muskets, then charge the ruffians!” shouted the Squire, taking command as of right.
The Cornishmen responded with a cheer. A shower of slugs flew through the air, but the Frenchmen having scattered, and many of them being protected by the angles of houses on the winding road, only one or two were hit. There was no time for either party to reload. The pursuers dashed forward, wielding cutlasses, and their muskets as clubs. The pursued stood to meet the charge; there were a few moments of hand-to-hand conflict; Tonkin’s burly figure was conspicuous in the thickest of the fray, wielding his musket like a flail; but the numbers of the Frenchmen prevailed, and the Squire recalled the men, to re-form them and charge again. From this point there was a straggling fight down the hill to the neighbourhood of the inn. The Squire, with Dick, Penwarden, and Tonkin close about him, led a series of rushes against the retreating enemy, whose numbers were always sufficient to give them check.
On coming to the inn, which was within a short distance of the jetty, Delarousse saw with alarm that his escape had been cut off. This was not due to any prevision on Tonkin’s part. He had been too eager to follow up the Frenchmen to consider ultimate contingencies. But his defect as a tactician was supplied by a man whom no one had hitherto suspected of any capacity in that direction, and who enjoyed henceforth, to the day of his death, a very exalted reputation in Polkerran on the strength of this one achievement.
Pennycomequick, the cobbler, perceiving that the Frenchmen on the lugger were apparently stunned, hastily got together a little party of men and boys, boarded the vessel, clapped the Frenchmen under hatches, and then punted out some distance from the jetty, towing the boats that had lain drawn up on the little beach. No one as yet knew that the Frenchmen had not sailed all the way from Roscoff in the lugger; the Aimable Vertu in the offing was concealed by the mist that still shrouded the sea. Finding himself thus cut off from communication with his vessel, Delarousse, who had released the men trussed up by Tonkin, with ready resource flung himself into the inn, and ordered his company to reload and occupy the windows. The Squire, now as keen as when he had been a young lieutenant, saw instantly that, the superiority in force being with the Frenchmen, the possession of the inn gave them an additional advantage which would render an attack hazardous to the last degree. He called a halt, to consider the next move.
At this moment the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard from round the corner leading to the hill, and Mr. Carlyon rode down.
“What’s all this, Trevanion?” he cried.
“A pack of rascally Frenchmen have raided the place, Vicar,” answered the Squire, “and are now holding the inn.”
“Bless my life! What impudent scoundrels!”
He dismounted, nimbly for a man of his years.
“Give me a gun,” he cried. “Here, you—I forget your name—get on my horse and ride to Truro as fast as you can and bring all the able-bodied men and any old soldiers you can find there. You, Benjamin Pound, go round to Doubledick’s stables, take a horse, ride to Portharvan, and ask Sir Bevil from me to call out the yeomanry.”
“Please, yer reverence, I can’t ride a hoss,” said the young fisher addressed.
“Can’t ride! You must, or find someone who can. Off with you, or you shan’t come to my dinner to-morrow. Bless my soul! Raiding on the day before Christmas! Can’t we turn ’em out, Trevanion?”
“Impossible, Vicar, unless we’re prepared to lose half our men. And then we’d fail. One man behind a wall is equal to four outside.”
“What did Doubledick mean by letting the villains into the inn? How did they come here? I don’t see any vessel.”
Tonkin was explaining the circumstances when, down the stairs beside the inn wall, came Doubledick, pale, dishevelled, and covered with dust. Becoming alarmed for his safety when the inn was invaded by the Frenchmen, he had made his way out by a secret passage leading up the slope into a house abutting on the stairway. He came up to the group silently and unobserved, and listened to Tonkin’s explanations and the further account given by the Squire of the attack on the Towers and the subsequent pursuit and capture of John Trevanion. Then he pressed forward to the Vicar’s side.
“Ah! yer reverence,” he said with unction, “’tis a judgment, ’tis indeed. It do cut me to the heart to say so, but Maister John be the wicked cause of this affliction.”
“What do you mean, Doubledick?” asked the Vicar, with a sidelong glance at the Squire.
“Do ’ee mind, sir, that night a while ago when the sojers wer ridin’ about country arter a runaway prisoner? Well, I own ’a was for a little small time in my inn; I’d never seed un afore, and didn’ know he wer a runaway till ’twas too late to gie un up.” (Doubledick, it will be observed, was not over-scrupulous as to his facts.) “While he was here, Maister John came down from Dower House and seed un, and they hollered at each other in the French lingo till my ears wer drummin’. Ah! ’twas then I first had my mispicions o’ Maister John.”
“Cut your story short, man,” said Mr. Carlyon impatiently.
“Well, then, yer reverence, when I went over to France, the Frenchy telled me as how Maister John, Robinson by name, wer his partner for ten year, and robbed him right and left. Ah! he was a clever rogue, too, keepin’ in the background so as our Polkerran men shouldn’ see un when they wented over to—to sell fish. And Delarousse swore to me, ’a did, that he’d take vengeance on him, and now he be come to do it, sure enough. If I may make so bold, I’d say let the Frenchy take Maister John and leave us in peace. I don’t want to see my inn riddled wi’ shots and crumbled about my ears.”
“Iss, and so say I,” cried Tonkin. “Delarousse telled me the self-same story, but I didn’ believe un; no, I couldn’ believe as Maister John were sech a ’nation rogue. I must believe it, now Doubledick hev telled us all. Let un go, sir, and be-jowned to un.”
Fierce cries of approval broke from the crowd, but the Squire held up his hand for silence.
“Let me have a word, neighbours,” he said. “We’re Cornishmen, every man of us, and good subjects of King George. We can’t allow a French raiding party to arrest a man on English soil, whatever his character may be. ’Tis flat treason; what do you say, Vicar?”
“I agree with you. As a magistrate, neighbours, I say we must do our duty.”
“I won’t go agen Squire and pa’son,” cried Tonkin. “I stand up for King Jarge.”
“King Jarge for ever!” shouted the crowd.
“Well, then,” said the Vicar, “we’ll hold our ground here until the yeomanry come up, and then we’ll storm the inn. God save the King!”
At this moment Dick pushed his way through the crowd.
“The privateer is under weigh, sir,” he cried, “and standing in for the harbour.”
All eyes were turned towards the sea. The Aimable Vertu, which had been lying off the headland, almost concealed by the mist, was steering for the fairway, evidently with the intention of coming to the assistance of the landing-party.
“Where’s Mr. Mildmay?” cried the Squire. “’Tis for him to capture that rascally privateer.”
Doubledick looked conscious; Tonkin and his fishers exchanged glances, and thought of the cargo in the hold of the Isaac and Jacob.
“We can do it, sir,” cried Dick suddenly. “She must pass beneath that big rock at the head of the Beal. It doesn’t stand steady, and a good push would hurl it over into the fairway. Let the vessel come in, and then block up the channel; she’d be caught then.”
“A capital notion,” said the Vicar. “Off with you, Dick; take two or three men with you. Have a care not to throw yourself over too.”
Dick hurried off with a few of the younger men. When they arrived at the landward end of the Beal, the privateer was slowly threading her course through the fairway towards the jetty, a man in the chains sounding busily. She crept in, and had come within a hundred yards of the jetty when Dick and his companions reached the boulder. They heard the rattle of her anchor; she swung broadside to the village, and the spectators on shore saw a formidable row of guns grinning from her portholes. Dick and his companions set their shoulders to the rock.
The door of the inn meanwhile had opened, and Delarousse appeared, holding aloft a musket, to which a white cloth was attached as a flag of truce.
“I vill speak viz you,” he said, pointing to the Squire, whom he recognised.
“Shall I parley with the rascal?” asked the Squire of Mr. Carlyon.
“Yes. We wish to avoid bloodshed, but it must be unconditional surrender, Trevanion.”
The Squire stepped towards the inn, meeting Delarousse half-way.
“You speak French, monsieur?” said the latter courteously.
“Not a word, sir,” replied the Squire.
“Ah! C’est dommage! I speak English, bad, monsieur. I make a meestake: I demand pardon. I not know ze house vas to you; pardon ze meestake, monsieur.”
“We’ll say no more about that, sir,” said the Squire. “I am willing to believe you had no wish to attack me. But this is an act of war, sir. You must at once set your prisoner free, and surrender, every one of you.”
“Ah, no, monsieur,” returned the Frenchman with a smile. “I haf to say your demand is ridicule. I make vun sign: bah! ze shot from my vessel zey strike ze village all to pieces. Voyez! Ze boats come now for me. You stop me? No.”
The Squire turned and looked in the direction of Delarousse’s outstretched hand. Two boats had been lowered from the deck of the privateer, and, filled with men armed to the teeth, were now pulling for the jetty. It was clear that under the vessel’s broadside no attempt to check this fresh invasion could be successful.
“You see?” continued the Frenchman, who had watched the expression on the Squire’s face. “I not quarrel viz ze people here; mon Dieu, no! Zey are my friends; viz zem I haf excellent affairs, zey profit us both. Ze man zat injure me, I haf him. Vat avantage of resistance? None. Zen I depart: all is finish vizout—vizout combat sanguinaire.”
“Your proposal——” began the Squire, but at this moment a dull splash was heard from the direction of the Beal. Dick and his assistants had displaced the rock, which rolled over the edge, bounded on to the ledge whence Dick had made his dive, and then plunged almost into the middle of the fairway. Even at that distance a few feet of it could be seen projecting above the surface.
“Sacré nom d’un chien!” cried Delarousse, startled out of his equanimity. “Vat is zis?”
“Some of my men have blocked up the fairway with a large rock,” replied the Squire. “It is now impossible for your vessel to clear the harbour.”
“But zis is perfidy, monsieur!” cried the furious Frenchman. “Ve speak as parlementaires; zere is arrest of hostilities; ma foi! zis is ze perfidy of English.”
“Not at all, sir. The men had already gone to do their work; I could not stop them. You see your position, sir. I advise you to consult with your men and surrender at discretion.”
They parted. Delarousse, livid with anger, returned to the inn; the Squire rejoined his party.
“We have the rascals,” said Mr. Carlyon gleefully.
“I axe yer pardon, sir,” said Tonkin, “but don’t ’ee think we’d better let the Frenchies go in peace arter all? They guns ’ud knock the village to dust, and there’s the women and childer to think of.”
“Ah! that’s true,” said the Vicar, and taking Mr. Trevanion aside, he began to discuss the matter with him. While they were still earnestly talking, there was a shout. They broke apart, and turning, saw that Delarousse had solved the problem in his own way.
The inn fronted the jetty, but on its southward side a narrow lane ran between the blind walls of the pilchard fishers’ salting-houses. The further end of this was nearer by a few yards to the sea. Rendered desperate, the Frenchman saw in the conversation between the two gentlemen an opportunity for making a dash. He ordered four of his men to throw open a low window giving on the lane, and to rush John Trevanion as quickly as possible down to the jetty, while he maintained his position with the rest at the front windows. Then, as soon as he was informed that the four men had arrived at the end of the lane, he gave the word for all to follow. Before the besiegers were aware of this sudden movement, the Frenchmen had gained a start of more than fifty yards.
“After them, my men!” cried the Squire, when he saw them rushing from behind the wall of the salting-house towards the jetty.
The whole party poured in pursuit. But by the time they reached the shoreward end of the jetty, John Trevanion had been lowered into the first of the privateer’s boats. The second had towed back a number of the craft which Pennycomequick had removed from the shore, the lugger itself, however, with the cobbler and his helpers aboard, still lying in the harbour on the inner side of the reef. Into these boats Delarousse and his men leapt, and pulled off swiftly to the privateer. They had no sooner left the jetty than a puff of smoke issued from one of the vessel’s portholes; there was a roar, and a round shot crashed into the planking, smashing several yards of it, and sending up splinters almost into the eyes of the Squire.
“’Tis no good, Trevanion,” cried the Vicar. “We shall all be slaughtered if we line up and fire at them. They’ve got your cousin, and we can’t help it.”
“But they can’t get out of the fairway, and there’s no water on the reef,” said the Squire. “If only Mildmay were here!”
He was soon to see that he had not reckoned with the seamanship of Jean Delarousse. The first of the boats pulled at full speed towards the fairway, receiving from the deck of the privateer a sounding-line as she passed. From the second boat Delarousse climbed to the deck of his vessel. The pilot crew, having sounded and measured the width of the channel between the fairway and the cliff, signed to their captain that he might proceed. It seemed to Dick impossible that the vessel should win through, and he watched with unstinted admiration the Frenchman’s skilful seamanship. Delarousse ordered the anchor to be tripped, and the vessel moved slowly towards the fairway, close-hauled on the starboard tack. When she reached the rock, she seemed to graze the cliff as she passed into the narrow channel; but with Delarousse himself at the helm she passed safely through. Then, there being a fair wind on her starboard quarter, Delarousse hauled up his courses, mainsail and foresail, and threw his foreyard aback. The check on the ship’s way gave him time to take aboard the boat, which had been moored to the rock, the rest of his crew having already clambered up the side from the other boats. These were then cast adrift; the foreyard filled, and the Aimable Vertu stood out to sea.