Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Lifeboat
Chapter Seven.
The Widow’s Cottage
“About a thousand ships are wrecked, and nearly a thousand lives are lost on the shores of this country every year,” was still the burden of Mrs Foster’s dreams when she was aroused by a loud knocking at the door of her cottage, and the sound of confused voices and trampling of many feet outside.
“Ho! goodness gracious me, ma’am,” cried worthy Mrs Laker, bursting into her mistress’s apartment—“if here ain’t a thousand robbers as is come for to pillidge the ouse an’ trample down the garding. It’s from the hattic winder, I see ’em with the moon, if w’ant the lightenin’ a glanshin’ on their ’orrid faces as is never shaved nor washed, and it’s bin my dream from the years of unsuspectious hinfancy, as is come for to pass now in the days of my womanhood, with dead bodies carryin’ too, w’ich is wuss. Ho! dear, wot shall I do!”
“Go and put on your clothes while I open the door,” said Amy Russell, entering hastily at the moment in a state of comparative dishabille, with a shawl thrown round her. “Dear mamma, don’t be alarmed; it must be a mistake. They cannot mean us any harm, I am certain. May I go and open the door?”
“Open the door!” shrieked Mrs Laker in the tone of one almost paralysed by astonishment; “open the door to a thousand robbers with swords, and guns, and blood, and dead bodies!”
As Mrs Laker was robed in her night-gown, and stood erect, with her arms extended and her hair dishevelled, she looked dreadfully tragic and awful, while these fearful words flowed from her pale lips.
“Hush, Laker,” said Mrs Foster, hastily throwing on her garments with trembling hands, while she made a strong effort to restrain her agitation, “go, dear Amy, and ask what they want; but don’t open the door.”
She followed Amy to the landing outside, leaving Mrs Laker, glaring in sceptical amazement, in the middle of the room. Presently, Amy was heard downstairs speaking through the key-hole. A man’s voice replied; there was a suppressed scream and immediately the outer door was unlocked, the chain removed, and the bolts withdrawn. This was followed by the heavy tramp of men in the passage below, and a wild shriek from Mrs Foster.
Mrs Laker, still standing with uplifted arms in the middle of the bedroom, and livid with terror, glared round in search of a place of refuge, and gasped horribly. Her eye fell on the bed from which her mistress had issued. With a spring that would have done her credit in the days of her girlhood, she plunged into it, head first, and rolled herself tight up in the clothes, where she lay, quaking and listening intently.
“It’s only a cut on the head, and a little blood, ma’am, don’t be alarmed,” said the gruff voice of Bluenose, as the footsteps ascended the stair, and approached the bedroom.
“Cut” and “blood” were the only words in this speech which made any impression on poor Mrs Laker, who trembled so violently that the curtains around her shook again.
“Lay him in my bed,” said Mrs Foster, in an agitated voice.
“W’y, the bed’s all alive—O!” exclaimed Bluenose, in surprise.
“O Laker! what are you doing there? get out, quick.”
“Mercy, good men, mercy; I—”
The sentence was cut short by a wild yell, as her eye fell on the pale and bloody face of Guy. She tumbled, clothes and all, over the side of the bed in a dead faint, and rolled, in a confused white heap, to the very feet of her astounded brother, Captain Bluenose.
“Well, if this don’t beat Trafalgar all to sticks!” exclaimed the Captain.
“Come, attend to Guy,” said Bax, in a deep, commanding voice.
He lifted up Mrs Laker and the bed-clothes as if she had been a large washing, and carried her down to her own apartment,—guided by Tommy Bogey, who knew the way,—where he placed her in bed, and left her to recover as she best might.
Bax had taken the precaution to despatch a messenger for a doctor before they left the beach, so that Guy’s hurt was soon examined, dressed, and pronounced to be a mere trifle which rest would heal in a few days. Indeed, Guy recovered consciousness soon after being brought into the cottage, and told his mother with his own lips that he was “quite well.” This, and the doctor’s assurances, so relieved the good lady, that she at once transferred much of her anxious care to the others who had been wrecked along with her son.
Lucy was placed in the hands of the sympathetic Amy Russell, and conducted by her to her own room, where she obtained dry clothing. As for the others, they dried themselves by the kitchen fire, which was stirred up vigorously by the now restored and repentant Laker, who also busied herself in spreading a repast for the shipwrecked men. Mrs Foster did the same for a select few, whom she meant to entertain in the parlour.
“Who is that handsome sailor,” said Amy, as she assisted Lucy Burton to dress, “the one, I mean, who came up with Guy?”
“There were four who came up with Guy,” replied Lucy, smiling.
“True,” said Amy, blushing (she blushed easily), “but I mean the very tall, dark man, with the black curling hair.”
“Ah! you mean the man who carried good Mrs Laker downstairs in a bundle,” said Lucy, with a merry laugh.
“Yes,” cried Amy, echoing the laugh, “who is he?”
“Why, you ought to know him,” said Lucy, with a look of surprise, “he resides near you; at least he was one of the boatmen of your own coast, before he became captain of the ‘Nancy’. His name is Bax.”
“Bax!” echoed Amy. “Is he Bax? Oh, I know Bax well by name. He is a friend of Guy, and a celebrated man on this coast. He is sometimes called the Stormy Petrel, because he is always sure to be found on the beach in the wildest gales; sometimes he is called the Life Preserver, on account of the many lives he has saved. Strange,” said Amy musingly, “that I should have pictured him to myself so like what he turns out to be. He is my beau-idéal of a hero!”
“He is a hero,” said Lucy, with such sudden enthusiasm that her new friend looked up in her face in surprise. “You do not know,” continued Lucy, in some confusion, “that he saved my life not much more than twenty-four hours ago.”
Amy expressed deep interest in this matter, and begged to hear all about it. Lucy, nothing loath, related the event circumstantially; and Amy, gazing earnestly in her beautiful animated countenance, sighed and regarded her with an expression of sad interest,—also with feelings which she herself could not understand.
“But how comes it that you have never seen Bax till to-night?” inquired Lucy, when she had finished her narrative.
“Because I have not been very long here,” said Amy, “and Bax had ceased to dwell regularly on the coast about the time I was saved, and came to live with Mrs Foster.”
“Saved!—Mrs Foster!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Yes, Mrs Foster is not my mother.”
“And Guy is not your brother?” said Lucy, with a glance so quick and earnest, that Amy felt a little confused.
“No, he is not,” said she, “but he saved my life at the end of Ramsgate pier, and ever since then I have lived with his mother.”
It was now Lucy’s turn to express deep interest. She begged to have the circumstances related to her, and Amy, nothing loath, told her how Guy had plunged into the sea when no one else observed her danger, and caught her just as she was sinking.
As Amy told her story with animation, and spoke of Guy, with sparkling eyes, and a rich glow on her fair cheek, Lucy gazed at her with grave interest, and felt sensations in her breast, which were quite new to her, and altogether incomprehensible.
Three times had Mrs Laker been sent to knock at Amy’s door, and inform the young ladies that supper awaited them, before they completed their toilet, and descended to the drawing-room.
Laker called it supper, because she could not conscientiously give the name of breakfast to a meal extemporised about four o’clock in the morning!
Mr Burton and Bluenose were already seated at the table. Bax stood near the fireplace bending down to Mrs Foster, who was looking up in his face, shaking his hand, and thanking him, with tears in her eyes, for having saved her son’s life! Bax was much perplexed by this view of the matter, taken and obstinately held to by the widow.
“Really, ma’am,” said he, with a deprecatory smile, “you are mistaken, I assure you. I did not save Guy’s life—on the contrary, he saved mine this night; for if he had not jumped well to wind’ard with the line and caught hold of the old foremast, where Tommy and I were perched like two birds—”
“Ha,” interrupted Bluenose, bluntly, “you’d both’s bin in Davy Jones’ locker by this time; for I seed the old stick myself, not three minits arter, go by the board like the stem of a baccy pipe.”
It was just as Bluenose concluded this speech that the young ladies entered the room.
“Come,” cried Bax, turning quickly towards Lucy, who advanced first, “here is another witness to the fact. Do try, Miss Burton, to convince Mrs Foster that I did not—”
Bax paused, for his glance fell at that moment on Amy Russell, whom he had not observed in the confusion of their first appearance in the cottage.
“My adopted daughter,” said Mrs Foster, taking Amy by the hand and leading her forward; “shake hands with Mr Bax, darling, who has saved Guy’s life to-night.”
Bax held Amy’s white little hand for one moment as tenderly as if he were afraid his own iron muscles might injure it.
“I see,” said he, with a smile, “that I must submit to be misrepresented until Guy himself comes to defend me.”
Amy glanced at Lucy and blushed. Lucy glanced at Amy and looked confused; then the whole party laughed, and Bluenose said that for his part he didn’t see no savin’ o’ life one way or other, ’xcepting as regarded the lifeboat, which he wos bound for to say had saved the whole lot of ’em, and that was all about it; whereupon they all sat down to supper, and the missionary asked a blessing; thanking God for their recent deliverance, and praying in a few earnest words for continued favour.
Bluenose was a man of peculiar and decided character. He did not at all relish his position in the drawing-room when he thought of his sister Mrs Laker supping in the kitchen. Being an impulsive man, he seized his cap, and said abruptly to his hostess:
“I’ll tell ’ee wot it is, marm, I aint used to this ’ere sort o’ thing. If you’ll excudge me, marm, I’ll go an’ ’ave my snack with Bess i’ the kitchen. Bax, there, he’s a sort o’ gen’leman by natur’ as well as hedication; but as for me I’m free to say as I prefers the fo’gs’l to the cabin—no offence meant. Come along, Tommy, and bring yer pannikin along with ’ee, lad, you’re like a fish out o’ water too.”
So saying, Captain Bluenose bowed to the company with what he meant to be an affable and apologetic air, and quitted the room without waiting for a reply.
“Ah, Bluenose,” said Mrs Laker, as her brother entered, cap in hand, and seated himself among the men of the “Nancy,” who were doing full justice to Mrs Foster’s hospitality, “I thought ye wouldn’t be long in the parlour, for you aint bin used to ’igh life, an’ w’y should you? as was born of poor but respectible parients, not but that the parients of the rich may be respectible also, I don’t go for to impinge no one, sit down, Tommy, my dear child, only think! ee’s bin ’alf drownded, an’ ’is mother dead only two year next Whitsuntide; sit down, Tommy, wot’ll ye ’ave?”
Tommy said he would have a bit of beef-steak pie;—got it, and set to work immediately.
It may be as well to state here that Mrs Laker was not a married woman, but, having reached a certain age, she deemed it advisable, in order to maintain the dignity of her character and personal appearance (which latter was stout and matronly) to dub herself Mrs—Laker being her maiden name. This statement involves a further explanation, inasmuch as it establishes the fact that Bluenose ought, in simple justice and propriety, to have gone by the name of Laker also.
But on the beach of Deal justice and propriety in regard to names are not necessarily held in great repute. At least they were not so a few years ago. Smuggling, as has been said, was rather prevalent in days gone by. Indeed, the man who was not a smuggler was an exception to the rule, if such a man ever existed. During their night expeditions, boatmen were often under the necessity of addressing each other in hoarse whispers, at times and in circumstances when coast-guard ears were uncommonly acute. Hence, in order to prevent inconvenient recognition, the men were wont to give each other nicknames, which nicknames descended frequently to their offspring.
The father of Captain Bluenose and of Mrs Laker had been a notorious scamp about the beginning of this century, at which period Deal may be said to have been in full swing in regard to smuggling and the French war. The old smuggler was uncommonly well acquainted with the towns of Calais, Gravelines, Dunkerque, Nieuport, and Ostende—notwithstanding that they lay in the enemy’s country. He had also enough of bad French to enable him to carry on his business, and was addicted to French brandy. It was the latter circumstance which turned his nose purple; procuring for him, as well as entailing on his son, the name of Bluenose, a name which our Captain certainly did not deserve, seeing that his nose was fiery red in colour,—perhaps a little too fat to be styled classic, but, on the whole, a most respectable nose.
Few of the boatmen of Deal went by their right names; but such soubriquets as Doey, Jack Onion, Skys’lyard Dick, Mackerel, Trappy, Rodney Nick, Sugarplum, etcetera, were common enough. Perchance they are not obsolete at the present day!
While the crew of the “Nancy” were making merry in the kitchen, the parlour bell rang violently, and Laker disappeared from the scene.
“You’re wanted, Tommy, darling,” said the worthy woman, returning promptly.
Tommy rose and was ushered into the parlour.
“Little boy,” said Mrs Foster, “my son Guy has sent a message requiring your attendance. I tried to prevent him seeing you; but he insists on it. Come, I will take you to his room. You must try, child, and not encourage him to talk. It will be bad for him, I fear.”
“Leave us, mother, dear,” said Guy, as they entered; “I wish to be alone with Tommy, only for ten minutes—not longer.”
Mrs Foster tried to remonstrate, but an impatient gesture from her son induced her to quit the room.
“You can write, Tommy?”
“Yes, sir. I—I hope you ain’t much hurt, sir?”
“Oh no!—a mere scratch. It’s only the loss of blood that weakens me. I’ll be all right in a few days. Now, sit down at that table and take a pen. Are you ready?”
Tommy said that he was, and Guy Foster dictated the following note to Mr Denham, of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company:—
“Deal.
“Dear Uncle,—I’m sorry to have to inform you that the ‘Nancy’ has become a total wreck on the Goodwin Sands. The cargo has been entirely lost—also two of the hands.
“I am at present disabled, from the effects of a blow on the head received during the storm. No doubt Bax will be up immediately to give you particulars.
“The cause of the loss of your schooner was, in my opinion, unseaworthiness of vessel and stores.
“Your affectionate nephew, Guy Foster.”
“Hallo!” thought Tommy, “that’s a stinger!”
“There,” said Guy, as he attached his signature, “fold and address that, and be off with it as fast as you can to the post.”
Tommy vanished in an instant, and was quickly at the post-office, which stood, at that time, near the centre of the town. He dropped the letter in, and having thus fulfilled his mission, relapsed into that easy swagger or roll that seems to be the natural and characteristic gait of Jack when ashore. He had not proceeded far when the sound of voices in dispute attracted his ear. The gale was still at its height, and the noise occasioned by its whistling among the chimneys and whirling round street corners was so great that the words uttered by the speakers were not distinguishable. Still there was some peculiarity in the tone which irresistibly attracted the boy. Perhaps Tommy was unusually curious that night; perhaps he was smitten, like Haroun Alraschid, with a desire for adventure; but whatever was the truth in regard to this, it is certain that, instead of passing on, as most people would naturally have done, Tommy approached the place whence the sounds proceeded with cautious steps—keeping as much in the shade of the houses as possible, although owing to the darkness of the night, this latter precaution was unnecessary.
Chapter Eight.
The Living Left Among the Dead—A Wild Chase on a Wild Night Stopped by a Ghost
On turning the corner of one of those houses on the beach of Deal which stand so close to the sea that in many cases they occupy common ground with the boats, Tommy found himself suddenly close to a group of men, one of whom, a very tall man, was addressing the others in an excited tone.
“I’ll tell ’ee wot it is, lads, let’s put ’im in a sack an’ leave him in the Great Chapel Field to cool hisself.” (The “Great Chapel Field” was the name formerly applied by the boatmen to Saint George’s Churchyard.)
“Sarve him right, the beggar,” said another man, with a low laugh, “he’s spoilt our game many a night. What say, boys? heave ’im shoulder high?”
The proposal was unanimously agreed to, and the party went towards an object which lay recumbent on the ground, near to one of those large capstans which are used on this part of the Kentish coast to haul up the boats. The object turned out to be a man, bound hand and foot, and with a handkerchief tied round the mouth to insure silence. Tommy was so near that he had no difficulty in recognising in this unfortunate the person of old Coleman, the member of the coast-guard who had been most successful in thwarting the plans of the smugglers for some years past. Rendered somewhat desperate by his prying disposition, they had seized him on this particular night, during a scuffle, and were now about to dispose of him in a time-honoured way.
Tommy also discovered that the coast-guard-man’s captors were Long Orrick, Rodney Nick, and a few more of his boatmen acquaintances. He watched them with much interest as they enveloped Coleman’s burly figure in a huge sack, tied it over his head, and, raising him on their shoulders bore him away.
Tommy followed at a safe distance, but he soon stopped, observing that two of the party had fallen behind the rest, engaged apparently in earnest conversation. They stood still a few minutes under the lee of a low-roofed cottage. Tommy crept as close to them as possible and listened.
“Come, Rodney Nick,” said one of the two, whose height proclaimed him to be Long Orrick, “a feller can’t talk in the teeth o’ sich a gale as this. Let’s stand in the lee o’ this old place here, and I’ll tell ye in two minits wot I wants to do. You see that old sinner Jeph refuses pint-blank to let me use his ‘hide;’ he’s become such a hypocrite that he says he won’t encourage smugglin’.”
“Well, wot then?” inquired Rodney Nick.
“W’y, I means to make ’im give in,” returned Long Orrick.
“An’ s’pose he won’t give in?” suggested Rodney.
“Then I’ll cut his throat,” replied Orrick, fiercely.
“Then I’ll have nothin’ to do with it.”
“Stop!” cried the other, seizing his comrade by the arm as he was turning to go away. “A feller might as well try to joke with a jackass as with you. In coorse I don’t mean that; but I’ll threaten the old hypocrite and terrify him till he’s half dead, and then he’ll give in.”
“He’s a frail old man,” said Rodney; “suppose he should die with fright?”
“Then let him die!” retorted Long Orrick.
“Humph; and s’pose he can’t be terrified?”
“Oh! get along with yer s’posin’. Will ye go or will ye not? that’s the question, as Shukspere’s ghost said to the Hemperer o’ Sweden.”
“Just you an’ me?” inquired Rodney.
“Ain’t we enough for an old man?”
“More nor enough,” replied Rodney, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, “if the old boy han’t got friends with him. Don’t ye think Bax might have took a fancy to spend the night there?”
“No,” said Long Orrick; “Bax is at supper in Sandhill Cottage, and he ain’t the man to leave good quarters in a hurry. But if yer afraid, we’ll go with our chums to the churchyard and take them along with us.”
Rodney Nick laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two immediately set off at a run to overtake their comrades. Tommy Bogey followed as close at their heels as he prudently could. They reached the walls of Saint George’s Church, or the “Great Chapel,” almost at the same moment with the rest of the party.
The form of the old church could be dimly seen against the tempestuous sky as the smugglers halted under the lee of the churchyard wall like a band of black ghosts that had come to lay one of their defunct comrades, on a congenial night.
At the north end of the burying-ground of Saint George’s Church there is a spot of ground which is pointed out to visitors as being the last resting-place of hundreds of the unfortunate men who fell in the sea-fights of our last war with France. A deep and broad trench was dug right across the churchyard, and here the gallant tars were laid in ghastly rows, as close together as they could be packed. Near to this spot stands the tomb of one of Lord Nelson’s young officers, and beside it grows a tree against which Nelson is said to have leaned when he attended the funeral.
It was just a few yards distant from this tree that the smugglers scaled the wall and lifted over the helpless body of poor Coleman. They did it expeditiously and in dead silence. Carrying him into the centre of the yard, they deposited the luckless coast-guard-man flat on his back beside the tomb of George Philpot, a man who had done good service in his day and generation—if headstones are to be believed. The inscription, which may still be seen by the curious, runs thus:—
A Tribute to the
Skill and Determined Courage
Of the Boatmen of Deal,
And in Memory of
George Philpot,
Who Died March 22, 1850
“Full many lives he saved
With his undaunted crew;
He put his trust in Providence,
And cared not how it blew.”
In the companionship of such noble dead, the smugglers left Coleman to his fate, and set off to finish their night’s work at old Jeph’s humble cottage.
Tommy Bogey heard them chuckle as they passed the spot where he lay concealed behind a tombstone, and he was sorely tempted to spring up with an unearthly yell, well knowing that the superstitious boatmen would take him for one risen from the dead, and fly in abject terror from the spot; but recollecting the importance of discretion in the work which now devolved on him, he prudently restrained himself.
The instant they were over the wall Tommy was at Coleman’s side. He felt the poor man shudder, and heard him gasp as he cut the rope that tied the mouth of the sack; for Coleman knew well the spot to which they had conveyed him, and his face, when it became visible, was ghastly white and covered with a cold sweat caused by the belief that he was being opened out for examination by some inquisitive but unearthly visitor.
“It’s only me,” said Tommy with an involuntary laugh. “Hold on, I’ll set you free in no time.”
“Hah!” coughed Coleman when the kerchief was removed from his mouth, “wot a ’orrible sensation it is to be choked alive!”
“It would be worse to be choked dead,” said Tommy.
“Cut the lines at my feet first, lad,” said Coleman, “they’ve a’most sawed through my ankle bones. There, that’s it now, help me to git up an’ shake myself.”
A few minutes elapsed before he recovered the full use of his benumbed limbs. During this period, the boy related all he had heard, and urged his companion to “look alive.” But Coleman required no urging. The moment he became aware of what was going on he felt for his cutlass, which the smugglers had not taken the trouble to remove, and, slapping Tommy on the back, stumbled among the tombs and over the graves towards the wall, which he vaulted with a degree of activity that might have rendered a young man envious. Tommy followed like a squirrel, and in a very few minutes more they were close at the heels of Long Orrick and his friends.
While they hurried on in silence and with cautious tread Coleman matured his plans. It was absolutely necessary that the utmost circumspection should be used, for a man and a boy could not hope to succeed in capturing six strong men.
“Run, Tommy, to the beach and fetch a friend or two. There are sure to be two of the guard within hail.”
Tommy was off, as he himself would have said, like a shot, and on gaining the beach almost ran into the arms of a young coast-guard-man named Supple Rodger, to whom he breathlessly told his tale.
“Stop, I’ll call out the guard,” said Rodger, drawing a pistol from the breast-pocket of his overcoat. But Tommy prevented him, explained that it was very desirable to catch the villains in the very act of breaking into old Jeph’s cottage, and hurried him away.
At the back of the cottage they found Coleman calmly observing the proceedings of the smugglers, one of whom was calling in a hoarse whisper through the keyhole. Apparently he received no reply, for he swore angrily a good deal, and said to his comrades more than once, “I do b’lieve the old sinner’s dead.”
“Come, I’ll burst in the door,” said the voice of Long Orrick, savagely.
The words were followed by a crash; and the trampling of feet in the passage proved that the slender fastenings of the door had given way.
“Now, lads,” cried Coleman, “have at ’em!”
He struck a species of port-fire, or bluelight, against the wall as he spoke; it sprang into a bright flame, and the three friends rushed into the cottage.
The smugglers did not wait to receive them. Bursting the fastenings of the front window Long Orrick leaped out into the street. Supple Rodger dashed aside the man who was about to follow and leaped after him like an avenging spirit. All the men but two were over the window before Coleman gained it. He seized the man who was in the act of leaping by the collar, but the treacherous garment gave way, and in a moment the smuggler was gone, leaving only a rag in Coleman’s grasp.
Meanwhile Tommy flung himself down in front of the only man who now remained, as he made a dash for the window. The result was that the man tumbled over the boy and fell to the ground. Having accomplished this feat, Tommy leaped up and sprang through the window to aid in the chase. As the smuggler rose, the disappointed Coleman turned round, flourished the rag in the air with a shout of defiance, and hit his opponent between the eyes with such force as to lay him a second time flat on the floor. A fierce struggle now ensued, during which the light was extinguished. The alarmed neighbours found them there, a few minutes later, writhing in each other’s arms, and punching each other’s heads desperately; Coleman, however, being uppermost.
When Tommy Bogey leaped over the window, as has been described, all the smugglers had disappeared, and he was at a loss what to do; but the faint sound of quick steps at the north end of the street led him to run at the top of his speed in that direction. Tommy was singularly fleet of foot. He ran so fast on this occasion that he reached the end of the street before the fugitive had turned into the next one. He saw distinctly that two men were running before him, and, concluding that they were Long Orrick and Supple Rodger, he did his best to keep them in view.
Long Orrick and his pursuer were well matched as to speed. Both were good runners; but the former was much the stronger man. Counting on this he headed for the wild expanse of waste ground lying to the north of Deal, already mentioned as the sand hills.
Here he knew that there would be no one to interfere between him and his antagonist.
Tommy Bogey thought of this too, as he sped along, and wondered not a little at the temerity of Supple Rodger in thus, as it were, placing himself in the power of his enemy. He chuckled, however, as he ran, at the thought of being there to render him assistance to the best of his power. “Ha!” thought he, “for Long Orrick to wollop Supple Rodger out on the sandhills is one thing; but for Long Orrick to wallop Supple Rodger with me dancin’ round him like a big wasp is quite another thing!”
Tommy came, as he thought thus, upon an open space of ground on which were strewn spare anchors and chain cables. Tumbling over a fluke of one of the former he fell to the earth with a shock that well-nigh drove all the wind out of his stout little body. He was up in a moment, however, and off again.
Soon the three were coursing over the downs like hares. It was difficult running, for the ground was undulating and broken, besides being covered in a few places with gorse, and the wind and rain beat so fiercely on their faces as almost to blind them.
About a mile or so beyond the ruins of Sandown Castle there is an old inn, called the “Checkers of the Hope,” or “The Checkers,” named after, it is said, and corrupted from, “Chaucer’s Inn” at Canterbury. It stands in the midst of the solitary waste; a sort of half-way house between the towns of Sandwich and Deal; far removed from either, however, and quite beyond earshot of any human dwelling. This, so says report, was a celebrated resort of smugglers in days gone by, and of men of the worst character; and as one looks at the irregular old building standing, one might almost say unreasonably, in that wild place, one cannot help feeling that it must have been the scene of many a savage revelry and many a deed of darkness in what are sometimes styled “the good old times.”
Some distance beyond this, farther into the midst of the sandhills, there is a solitary tombstone; well known, both by tradition and by the inscription upon it, as “Mary Bax’s tomb.”
Here Long Orrick resolved to make a stand; knowing that no shout that Rodger might give vent to could reach the Checkers in the teeth of such a gale.
The tale connected with poor Mary Bax is brief and very sad. She lived about the end of the last century, and was a young and beautiful girl. Having occasion to visit Deal, she set out one evening on her solitary walk across the bleak sandhills. Here she was met by a brutal foreign seaman, a Lascar, who had deserted from one of the ships then lying in the Downs. This monster murdered the poor girl and threw her body into a ditch that lies close to the spot on which her tomb now stands. The deed, as may well be supposed, created great excitement in Deal and the neighbourhood; for Mary Bax, being young, beautiful, and innocent, was well known and much loved.
