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.
There was, at the time this murder was perpetrated, a youth named John Winter, who was a devoted admirer of poor Mary. He was much younger than she, being only seventeen, while she was twenty-three. He became almost mad when he heard of the murder. A little brother of John Winter, named David, happened to be going to the Checkers’ Inn at the time the murder was committed and witnessed it. He ran instantly to his brother to tell him what he had seen. It was chiefly through the exertions of these two that the murderer was finally brought to justice.
John Winter rested neither night nor day until he tracked the Lascar down, and David identified him. He was hanged on a gallows erected close to the spot where he murdered his innocent victim. On the exact spot where the murder took place Mary’s grave was dug, and a tombstone was put up, which may be seen there at the present time, with the following inscription upon it:—
On This Spot,
August the 25th 1782,
Mary Bax, Spinster,
Aged 23 Years,
Was Murdered by
Martin Lash, a Foreigner,
Who was Executed for the Same.
Poor John Winter left the country immediately after, and did not return until thirty years had elapsed, when the event was forgotten, and most of his old friends and companions were dead or gone abroad. His little brother David was drowned at sea.
This Mary Bax was cousin to the father of John Bax, who figures so conspicuously in our tale.
At the tomb of Mary Bax, then, as we have said, Long Orrick resolved to make a stand. Tommy Bogey had, by taking a short cut round a piece of marshy ground, succeeded in getting a little in advance of Orrick, and, observing that he was running straight towards the tombstone, he leaped into the ditch, the water in which was not deep at the time, and, coursing along the edge of it, reached the rear of the tomb and hid himself there, without having formed any definite idea as to what course he meant to pursue.
Whatever the intentions of the smuggler were, they were effectually frustrated by an apparition which suddenly appeared and struck terror alike to the heart of pursuer and pursued. As Long Orrick approached the tomb there suddenly arose from the earth a tall gaunt figure with silver hair streaming wildly in the gale. To Tommy, who crouched behind the tomb, and Rodger and Orrick, who approached in front, it seemed as if the spirit of the murdered girl had leaped out of the grave. The effect on all three was electrical. Orrick and Rodger, diverging right and left, fled like the wind in opposite directions, and were out of sight in a few seconds, while Tommy, crouching on the ground behind the tomb, trembled in abject terror.
The spirit, if such it was, did not attempt to pursue the fugitives, but turning fiercely towards the boy, seized him by the collar and shook him.
“Oh! mercy! mercy!” cried poor Tommy, whose heart quaked within him.
“Hallo! Tommy Bogey, is it you, boy?” said the spirit, releasing the lad from a grasp that was anything but gentle.
“What! old Jeph, can it be you?” exclaimed Tommy, in a tone of intense surprise, as he seated himself on the tombstone, and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead with the cuff of his coat.
“Ay, it is me,” replied the old man, sadly, “although I do sometimes doubt my own existence. It ain’t often that I’m interrupted—but what brings ye here, lad, and who were these that I saw running like foul fiends across the sandhills on such a night as this?”
“They were Supple Rodger and Long Orrick,” replied Tommy, “and a foul fiend is one of ’em, anyhow, as you’d have found out, old Jeph, if ye’d bin at home this evenin’. As for bein’ out on sich a night as this, it seems to me ye han’t got much more sense to boast of in this respect than I have. You’ll ketch your death o’ cold, old man.”
“Old man!” echoed Jeph, with a peculiar chuckle. “Ha! yes, I am an old man, and I’ve bin used to such nights since I wos a young man. But come away, lad, I’ll go home with ye now.”
Old Jeph took the boy’s hand as he said this, and the two went over the moor together—slowly, for the way was rough and broken, and silently, for the howling of the gale rendered converse almost impossible.
It is not to be supposed that Tommy Bogey had such command over himself, however, as altogether to restrain his curiosity. He did make one or two attempts to induce old Jeph to explain why he was out in such a stormy night, and on such a lonely spot; but the old man refused to be communicative, and finally put a stop to the subject by telling Tommy to let other people’s business alone, and asking him how it happened that Long Orrick came to make an attempt on his house, and how it was he failed?
Tommy related all he knew with alacrity and for a time secured old Jeph’s attention, as was plain from the way in which he chuckled when he heard how his enemy had been outwitted; but gradually the narrative fell on uninterested ears, and before they regained the town the old man’s countenance had become grave and sad, and his mind was evidently wandering among the lights—mayhap among the shadows—of “other days.”
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