Фредерик Марриет
The Three Cutters
Chapter Three
Cutter the Third
Reader! Have you been to Saint Malo? If you have, you were glad enough to leave the hole; and if you have not, take my advice, and do not give yourself the trouble to go and see that or any other French port in the Channel. There is not one worth looking at. They have made one or two artificial ports, and they are no great things; there is no getting out or getting in. In fact, they have no harbours in the Channel, while we have the finest in the world; a peculiar dispensation of Providence, because it knew that we should want them, and France would not. In France, what are called ports are all alike,—nasty, narrow holes, only to be entered at certain times of tide and certain winds; made up of basins and backwaters, custom-houses, and cabarets; just fit for smugglers to run into, and nothing more; and, therefore they are used for very little else.
Now, in the dog-hole called Saint Malo there is some pretty land, although a great deficiency of marine scenery. But never mind that. Stay at home, and don’t go abroad to drink sour wine, because they call it Bordeaux, and eat villainous trash, so disguised by cooking that you cannot possibly tell which of the birds of the air, or beasts of the field, or fishes of the sea, you are cramming down your throat. “If all is right, there is no occasion for disguise,” is an old saying; so depend upon it that there is something wrong, and that you are eating offal, under a grand French name. They eat everything in France, and would serve you up the head of a monkey who has died of the smallpox, as singe à la petite vérole—that is, if you did not understand French; if you did, they would call it, tête d’amour à l’Ethiopique, and then you would be even more puzzled. As for their wine, there is no disguise in that; it’s half vinegar. No, no! Stay at home; you can live just as cheaply, if you choose; and then you will have good meat, good vegetables, good ale, good beer, and a good glass of grog; and, what is of more importance, you will be in good company. Live with your friends, and don’t make a fool of yourself.
I would not have condescended to have noticed this place, had it not been that I wish you to observe a vessel which is lying along the pier-wharf, with a plank from the shore to her gunwale. It is low water, and she is aground, and the plank dips down at such an angle that it is a work of danger to go either in or out of her. You observe that there is nothing very remarkable in her. She is a cutter, and a good sea-boat, and sails well before the wind. She is short for her breadth of beam, and is not armed. Smugglers do not arm now—the service is too dangerous; they effect their purpose by cunning, not by force. Nevertheless, it requires that smugglers should be good seamen, smart active fellows, and keen-witted, or they can do nothing. This vessel has not a large cargo in her, but it is valuable. She has some thousand yards of lace, a few hundred pounds of tea, a few bales of silk, and about forty ankers of brandy—just as much as they can land in one boat. All they ask is a heavy gale or a thick fog, and they trust to themselves for success.
There is nobody on board except a boy; the crew are all up at the cabaret, settling their little accounts of every description—for they smuggle both ways, and every man has his own private venture. There they are all, fifteen of them, and fine-looking fellows, too, sitting at that long table. They are very merry, but quite sober, as they are to sail to-night.
The captain of the vessel (whose name, by-the-bye, is the Happy-go-lucky,—the captain christened her himself) is that fine-looking young man, with dark whiskers meeting under his throat. His name is Jack Pickersgill. You perceive at once that he is much above a common sailor in appearance. His manners are good, he is remarkably handsome, very clean, and rather a dandy in his dress. Observe how very politely he takes off his hat to that Frenchman, with whom he had just settled accounts; he beats Johnny Crapeau at his own weapons. And then there is an air of command, a feeling of conscious superiority, about Jack; see how he treats the landlord, de haut en bas, at the same time that he is very civil. The fact is, that Jack is of a very good, old family, and received a very excellent education; but he was an orphan, his friends were poor, and could do but little for him: he went out to India as a cadet, ran away, and served in a schooner which smuggled opium into China, and then came home. He took a liking to the employment, and is now laying up a very pretty little sum: not that he intends to stop: no, as soon as he has enough to fit out a vessel for himself, he intends to start again for India, and with two cargoes of opium he will return, he trusts, with a handsome fortune, and re-assume his family name. Such are Jack’s intentions; and, as he eventually means to reappear as a gentleman, he preserves his gentlemanly habits: he neither drinks, nor chews, nor smokes. He keeps his hands clean, wears rings, and sports a gold snuff-box; notwithstanding which, Jack is one of the boldest and best of sailors, and the men know it. He is full of fun, and as keen as a razor. Jack has a very heavy venture this time—all the lace is his own speculation, and if he gets it in safe, he will clear some thousands of pounds. A certain fashionable shop in London has already agreed to take the whole off his hands.
That short, neatly-made young man is the second in command, and the companion of the captain. He is clever, and always has a remedy to propose when there is a difficulty, which is a great quality in a second in command. His name is Corbett. He is always merry—half-sailor, half-tradesman; knows the markets, runs up to London, and does business as well as a chapman—lives for the day and laughs at to-morrow.
That little punchy old man, with long grey hair and fat face, with a nose like a note of interrogation, is the next personage of importance. He ought to be called the sailing-master, for, although he goes on shore in France, off the English coast he never quits the vessel. When they leave her with the goods, he remains on board; he is always to be found off any part of the coast where he may be ordered; holding his position in defiance of gales, and tides, and fogs; as for the revenue-vessels, they all know him well enough, but they cannot touch a vessel in ballast, if she has no more men on board than allowed by her tonnage. He knows every creek, and hole, and corner of the coast; how the tide runs in—tide, half-tide, eddy, or current. That is his value. His name is Morrison.
You observe that Jack Pickersgill has two excellent supporters in Corbett and Morrison; his other men are good seamen, active, and obedient, which is all that he requires. I shall not particularly introduce them.
“Now you may call for another litre, my lads, and that, must be the last; the tide is flowing fast, and we shall be afloat in half an hour, and we have just the breeze we want. What d’ye think, Morrison, shall we have dirt?”
“I’ve been looking just now, and if it were any other month in the year I should say, yes; but there’s no trusting April, captain. Howsomever, if it does blow off, I’ll promise you a fog in three hours afterwards.”
“That will do as well. Corbett, have you settled with Duval?”
“Yes, after more noise and charivari than a panic in the Stock Exchange would make in England. He fought and squabbled for an hour, and I found that, without some abatement, I never should have settled the affair.”
“What did you let him off?”
“Seventeen sous,” replied Corbett, laughing.
“And that satisfied him?” inquired Pickersgill.
“Yes—it was all he could prove to be a surfaire: two of the knives were a little rusty. But he will always have something off; he could not be happy without it. I really think he would commit suicide if he had to pay a bill without a deduction.”
“Let him live,” replied Pickersgill. “Jeannette, a bottle of Volnay of 1811, and three glasses.”
Jeannette, who was the fille de cabaret, soon appeared with a bottle of wine, seldom called for, except by the captain of the Happy-go-lucky.
“You sail to-night?” said she, as she placed the bottle before him.
Pickersgill nodded his head.
“I had a strange dream,” said Jeannette; “I thought you were all taken by a revenue-cutter, and put in a cachot. I went to see you, and I did not know one of you again—you were all changed.”
“Very likely, Jeannette; you would not be the first who did not know their friends again when in misfortune. There was nothing strange in your dream.”
“Mais, mon Dieu! Je ne suis pas comme ça, moi.”
“No, that you are not, Jeannette; you are a good girl, and some of these fine days I’ll marry you,” said Corbett.
“Doit être bien beau ce jour là, par exemple,” replied Jeannette, laughing; “you have promised to marry me every time you have come in these last three years.”
“Well, that proves I keep to my promise, anyhow.”
“Yes; but you never go any further.”
“I can’t spare him, Jeannette, that is the real truth,” said the captain: “but wait a little,—in the meantime, here is a five-franc piece to add to your petite fortune.”
“Merci bien, monsieur le capitaine; bon voyage!” Jeannette held her finger up to Corbett, saying, with a smile, “méchant!” and then quitted the room.
“Come, Morrison, help us to empty this bottle, and then we will all go on board.”
“I wish that girl wouldn’t come here with her nonsensical dreams,” said Morrison, taking his seat; “I don’t like it. When she said that we should be taken by a revenue-cutter, I was looking at a blue and a white pigeon sitting on the wall opposite; and I said to myself, Now, if that be a warning, I will see: if the blue pigeon flies away first, I shall be in jail in a week; if the white, I shall be back here.”
“Well?” said Pickersgill, laughing.
“It wasn’t well,” answered Morrison, tossing off his wine, and putting the glass down with a deep sigh; “for the cursed blue pigeon flew away immediately.”
“Why, Morrison, you must have a chicken-heart to be frightened at a blue pigeon!” said Corbett, laughing and looking out of the window; “at all events, he has come back again, and there he is sitting by the white one.”
“It’s the first time that ever I was called chicken-hearted,” replied Morrison, in wrath.
“Nor do you deserve it, Morrison,” replied Pickersgill; “but Corbett is only joking.”
“Well, at all events, I’ll try my luck in the same way, and see whether I am to be in jail: I shall take the blue pigeon as my bad omen, as you did.”
The sailors and Captain Pickersgill all rose and went to the window, to ascertain Corbett’s fortune by this new species of augury. The blue pigeon flapped his wings, and then he sidled up to the white one; at last, the white pigeon flew off the wall and settled on the roof of the adjacent house. “Bravo, white pigeon!” said Corbett; “I shall be here again in a week.” The whole party, laughing, then resumed their seats; and Morrison’s countenance brightened up. As he took the glass of wine poured out by Pickersgill, he said, “Here’s your health, Corbett; it was all nonsense, after all—for, d’ye see, I can’t be put in jail, without you are. We all sail in the same boat, and when you leave me you take with you everything that can condemn the vessel—so here’s success to our trip.”
“We will all drink that toast, my lads, and then on board,” said the captain; “here’s success to our trip.”
The captain rose, as did the mates and men, drank the toast, turned down the drinking-vessels on the table, hastened to the wharf, and, in half an hour, the Happy-go-lucky was clear of the port of Saint Malo.
Chapter Four
Portland Bill
The Happy-go-lucky sailed with a fresh breeze and a flowing sheet from Saint Malo, the evening before the Arrow sailed from Barn Pool. The Active sailed from Portsmouth the morning after.
The yacht, as we before observed, was bound to Cowes, in the Isle of Wight. The Active had orders to cruise wherever she pleased within the limits of the admiral’s station; and she ran for West Bay, on the other side of the Bill of Portland. The Happy-go-lucky was also bound for that bay to land her cargo.
The wind was light, and there was every appearance of fine weather, when the Happy-go-lucky, at ten o’clock on the Tuesday night, made the Portland lights; as it was impossible to run her cargo that night, she hove to.
At eleven o’clock the Portland lights were made by the revenue-cutter Active. Mr Appleboy went up to have a look at them, ordered the cutter to be hove to, and then went down to finish his allowance of gin-toddy. At twelve o’clock, the yacht Arrow made the Portland lights, and continued her course, hardly stemming the ebb tide.
Day broke, and the horizon was clear. The first on the look-out were, of course, the smugglers; they, and those on board the revenue-cutter, were the only two interested parties—the yacht was neuter.
“There are two cutters in sight, sir,” said Corbett, who had the watch; for Pickersgill, having been up the whole night, had thrown himself down on the bed with his clothes on.
“What do they look like?” said Pickersgill, who was up in a moment.
“One is a yacht, and the other may be; but I rather think, as far as I can judge in the grey, that it is our old friend off here.”
“What! Old Appleboy?”
“Yes, it looks like him; but the day has scarcely broke yet.”
“Well, he can do nothing in a light wind like this; and before the wind we can show him our heels: but are you sure the other is a yacht?” said Pickersgill, coming on deck.
“Yes; the king is more careful of his canvas.”
“You’re right,” said Pickersgill, “that is a yacht; and you’re right there again in your guess—that is the stupid old Active which creeps about creeping for tubs. Well, I see nothing to alarm us at present, provided it don’t fall a dead calm, and then we must take to our boats as soon as he takes to his; we are four miles from him at least. Watch his motions, Corbett, and see if he lowers a boat. What does she go now? Four knots?—that will soon tire their men.”
The positions of the three cutters were as follows:—
The Happy-go-lucky was about four miles off Portland Head, and well into West Bay. The revenue-cutter was close to the Head. The yacht was outside of the smuggler, about two miles to the westward, and about five or six miles from the revenue-cutter.
“Two vessels in sight, sir,” said Mr Smith, coming down into the cabin to Mr Appleboy.
“Very well,” replied the lieutenant, who was lying down in his standing bed-place.
“The people say one is the Happy-go-lucky, sir,” drawled Smith.
“Heh? What! Happy-go-lucky? Yes, I recollect; I’ve boarded her twenty times—always empty. How’s she standing?”
“She stands to the westward now, sir; but she was hove to, they say, when they first saw her.”
“Then she has a cargo in her,” and Mr Appleboy shaved himself, dressed, and went on deck.
“Yes,” said the lieutenant, rubbing his eyes again and again, and then looking through the glass, “it is her, sure enough. Let draw the foresheet-hands make sail. What vessel’s the other?”
“Don’t know, sir,—she’s a cutter.”
“A cutter? Yes, may be a yacht, or may be the new cutter ordered on the station. Make all sail, Mr Tomkins: hoist our pendant, and fire a gun—they will understand what we mean then; they don’t know the Happy-go-lucky as well as we do.”
In a few minutes the Active was under a press of sail; she hoisted her pendant, and fired a gun. The smuggler perceived that the Active had recognised her, and she also threw out more canvas, and ran off more to the westward.
“There’s a gun, sir,” reported one of the men to Mr Stewart, on board of the yacht.
“Yes; give me the glass—a revenue-cutter; then this vessel in shore running towards us must be a smuggler.”
“She has just now made all sail, sir.”
“Yes, there’s no doubt of it. I will go down to his lordship; keep her as she goes.”
Mr Stewart then went down to inform Lord B— of the circumstance. Not only Lord B— but most of the gentlemen came on deck; as did soon afterwards the ladies, who had received the intelligence from Lord B—, who spoke to them through the door of the cabin.
But the smuggler had more wind than the revenue-cutter, and increased her distance.
“If we were to wear round, my lord,” observed Mr Stewart, “she is just abreast of us and in shore, we could prevent her escape.”
“Round with her, Mr Stewart,” said Lord B—; “we must do our duty and protect the laws.”
“That will not be fair, papa,” said Cecilia Ossulton; “we have no quarrel with the smuggler: I’m sure the ladies have not, for they bring us beautiful things.”
“Miss Ossulton,” observed her aunt, “it is not proper for you to offer an opinion.”
The yacht wore round, and, sailing so fast, the smuggler had little chance of escaping her; but to chase is one thing—to capture, another.
“Let us give her a gun,” said Lord B—, “that will frighten her; and he dare not cross our hawse.”
The gun was loaded, and not being more than a mile from the smuggler, actually threw the ball almost a quarter of the way.
The gentlemen, as well as Lord B—, were equally excited by the ardour of pursuit; but the wind died away, and at last it was nearly calm. The revenue-cutter’s boats were out, and coming up fast.
“Let us get our boat out, Stewart,” said his lordship, “and help them; it is quite calm now.”
The boat was soon out: it was a very large one, usually stowed on, and occupying a large portion of, the deck. It pulled six oars; and when it was manned, Mr Stewart jumped in, and Lord B— followed him.
“But you have no arms,” said Mr Hautaine.
“The smugglers never resist now,” observed Stewart.
“Then you are going on a very gallant expedition, indeed,” observed Cecilia Ossulton; “I wish you joy.”
But Lord B— was too much excited to pay attention. They shoved off, and pulled towards the smuggler.
At this time the revenue boats were about five miles astern of the Happy-go-lucky, and the yacht about three-quarters of a mile from her in the offing. Pickersgill had, of course, observed the motions of the yacht; had seen her wear on chase, hoist her ensign and pendant, and fire her gun.
“Well,” said he, “this is the blackest ingratitude! To be attacked by the very people whom we smuggle for! I only wish she may come up with us; and, let her attempt to interfere, she shall rue the day: I don’t much like this, though.”
As we before observed, it fell nearly calm, and the revenue boats were in chase. Pickersgill watched them as they came up.
“What shall we do?” said Corbett,—“get the boat out?”
“Yes,” replied Pickersgill, “we will get the boat out, and have the goods in her all ready; but we can pull faster than they do, in the first place; and, in the next, they will be pretty well tired before they come up to us. We are fresh, and shall soon walk away from them; so I shall not leave the vessel till they are within half a mile. We must sink the ankers, that they may not seize the vessel, for it is not worth while taking them with us. Pass them along, ready to run them over the bows, that they may not see us and swear to it. But we have a good half hour, and more.”
“Ay, and you may hold all fast if you choose,” said Morrison, “although it’s better to be on the right side and get ready; otherwise, before half an hour, I’ll swear that we are out of their sight. Look there,” said he, pointing to the eastward at a heavy bank, “it’s coming right down upon us, as I said it would.”
“True enough; but still there is no saying which will come first, Morrison, the boats or the fog; so we must be prepared.”
“Hilloa! What’s this? Why, there’s a boat coming from the yacht!”
Pickersgill took out his glass.
“Yes, and the yacht’s own boat with the name painted on her bows. Well, let them come—we will have no ceremony in resisting them; they are not in the Act of Parliament, and must take the consequences. We have nought to fear. Get stretchers, my lads, and hand-spikes; they row six oars, and are three in the stern-sheets: they must be good men if they take us.”
In a few minutes Lord B— was close to the smuggler.
“Boat ahoy! What do you want?”
“Surrender in the king’s name.”
“To what, and to whom, and what are we to surrender? We are an English vessel coasting along shore.”
“Pull on board, my lads,” cried Stewart; “I am a king’s officer: we know her.”
The boat darted alongside, and Stewart and Lord B—, followed by the men, jumped on the deck.
“Well, gentlemen, what do you want?” said Pickersgill.
“We seize you! You are a smuggler,—there’s no denying it: look at the casks of spirits stretched along the deck.”
“We never said that we were not smugglers,” replied Pickersgill; “but what is that to you? You are not a king’s ship, or employed by the revenue.”
“No; but we carry a pendant, and it is our duty to protect the laws.”
“And who are you?” said Pickersgill.
“I am Lord B—.”
“Then, my lord, allow me to say that you would do much better to attend to the framing of laws, and leave people of less consequence, like those astern of me, to execute them. ‘Mind your own business,’ is an old adage. We shall not hurt you, my lord, as you have only employed words, but we shall put it out of your power to hurt us. Come aft, my lads. Now, my lord, resistance is useless; we are double your numbers, and you have caught a Tartar.”
Lord B— and Mr Stewart perceived that they were in an awkward predicament.
