CHAPTER XXXIX
HOW THEY WARNED CAPTAIN SHARKIE NYE
Dusk was falling as Sir John paused beside the old cross whose worn base chanced to be propping divers and sundry brawny backs: Mr. Muddle leaned there side by side with Mr. Pursglove; there also were Messrs. Godby, Unstead and Comfort, each and all of whom seemed extremely wide awake and more than usually talkative notwithstanding the pervading drowsiness of the warm, stilly air.
“G’d evenin’, Mus’ Derwent; tur’ble waarm it do ha’ been to-day sure-lye,” quoth Mr. Muddle.
“Though theer was a bit o’ wind stirrin’ ’bout ’leven o’clock ’s marnin’,” added Mr. Pursglove.
“Aye, but it doied awaay it did, afore twalve,” said Mr. Godby.
“Rackon my peas’ll do naun good ’appen it doan’t rain,” opined Mr. Comfort.
And yet Sir John knew instinctively that it was neither to discuss the unusual heat of the weather nor Mr. Comfort’s languishing peas that had brought them hither in murmurous conclave.
And surely it was no very extraordinary sight to behold Parson Hartop ambling up the street on his plump steed, even though Mr. Pym strode at his stirrup, and yet the four worthies seemed vaguely uneasy none the less.
Reaching the cross, Mr. Hartop drew rein and Mr. Pym, grounding the long musket he carried, wiped perspiring brow.
“Is George Potter hereabouts?” he inquired in accents discreetly modulated.
“No, Mus’ Pym.”
“Then you must find him—at once!”
“Aye, Mus’ Pym ... but whoy, sir, an’ wherefore?”
“Tell ’em, Hartop!” said the painter.
“Friends,” said the parson, leaning down from his saddle and addressing them much as if it had been a pulpit; “ye refractory souls, we be all of us human and therefore prone to err. But for myself, having the cure of souls among ye, I regard ye all as my wayward children, and, when I see ye rushing blindly on destruction, hold it my bounden duty to warn ye thereof.... Hark ye, then! Cuckmere Haven is watched to-night! There be many soldiers hidden there and upon the cliff. I have seen them with my own eyes; heed therefore my word! Pass the warning to your fellows, and thereafter let each o’ ye seek your beds with due gratitude to that ever beneficent Providence that by my humble means hath, yet again, saved ye from dire peril o’ your bodies.”
“In a word,” added Mr. Pym, “the Preventives ha’ been warned somehow and are out in force, and but for our parson would ha’ shot or taken every man o’ ye!”
“One other matter,” sighed Mr. Hartop; “you will tell George Potter, most wayward of all my children, that next time he is necessitated to use the church tower he will leave space for the bell-ropes to play freely: on the last occasion, as you will doubtless remember, the tenor bell could not be rung up.”
“Arl roight, Mus’ Hartop, sir, an’ thank’ee koindly! Ye see, ’twere one o’ they liddle tubs, sir, as went an’ jammed hisself, Mus’ ’Artop, sir. An’ a praper parson ye be, sure-lye.”
“Aye, a moighty good passon to we, sir. A true gen’leman as do ever tak’ our part, you be, sir.”
“Alas!” sighed Mr. Hartop. “Alas, that ye should need me so to do!... Pray show more care hereafter as regards my bells ... and mind, home all o’ ye, and forget not your prayers.... Good-night.”
So saying, Parson Hartop saluted them all with lifted hat and ambled away, whereupon the four worthies, big with the news, hasted forthwith to the ‘Market Cross Inn.’
“Ha!” quoth Mr. Pym, leaning upon his musket and looking after the parson’s retiring figure. “Said I not we were all smugglers hereabouts, Mr. Derwent? And yonder goeth the best of us all, a truly saintly man, sir. And now for Potter.”
They found the inn agog with the tidings.
“Guid save’s a’!” exclaimed Sir Hector, “what o’ poor Sharkie Nye?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bunkle, the philosopher, “never worrit! Life hath its downs as well as its ups, an’ Sharkie’ll never put in shore wi’out the signal.”
“But this looks like treachery, Peter!” fumed Sir Hector. “And syne they ken sae muckle ’tis vera like they’ll ken the signal likewise. Whaur’s Geordie? I maun hae a world wi’ Geordie Potter. Whaur bides he, Peter man?”
“A sight nigher than ’e seems, sir!” answered Mr. Bunkle and, winking, led them into his inner, much-doored holy of holies. Here he rapped certain times upon the panelling, and rap answered him; thereafter one of the five doors opened and Mr. Potter appeared, placid as ever and surprisingly neat, except for a cobweb adhering to one newly trimmed whisker.
Upon hearing Mr. Pym’s news, he grew profoundly thoughtful and stood awhile staring into the fire.
“Sir Hector be right, I rackon!” said he at last. “’Tis a spy’s work, sure-lye ... an’ there be only one way to mak’ sarten an’ that be to go theer——”
“Do ’ee mean Cuckmere ’Aven, Jarge?”
“Aye, Peter, I do. I be a-goin’ d’rackly-minute to watch. If they shows the signal light a-swing from cliff, I’ll know ’tis a spy ... an’ must warn Sharkie off——”
“Aye, but how, Jarge?”
“Wi’ this, Peter.” And from a pocket of the frieze coat Mr. Potter drew a short-barrelled, heavy pistol. “I wait till Sharkie be within ’ail and let fly ... flash’ll warn ’im.... An’ noo I’ll be a-goin’——”
“An’ I’m wi’ ye, Geordie man!” quoth Sir Hector, reaching for his hat.
“And I,” said Sir John, clapping on his own.
“Why, Lord love ’ee, gen’lemen,” exclaimed Mr. Potter, “’twon’t be nowise easy-goin’! I be for short cuts ’cross Down, ship-tracks an’ hidden ways.”
“No matter,” answered Sir John.
“An’ what’s more, sirs, dappen us reaches Cuckmere in time, when I fires to warn Sharkie ’tis but to be expected as they Preventive lads’ll fire back at me ... so ’tis best I go alone, I rackon——”
“Hoot-toot, Geordie, ye’re wastin’ an’ awfu’ lot o’ wind; save it tae better purpose, man, for we’re gangin’ wi’ ye.”
“And I also,” said Mr. Pym, examining the flint of his musket.
“Why, then, come your ways, sirs,” said Mr. Potter; “but if we be took, ’tis as smugglers you’ll be sarved——”
“And why not?” retorted Mr. Pym argumentatively. “Are not all Sussex folk smugglers at heart—aye, and mankind in general, for matter o’ that?”
“Well, good fortun’ go wi’ ye, sirs,” said Mr. Bunkle. “’Twill be middlin’ dark; moon doan’t rise till three o’clock.... An’ there’ll be a bowl o’ summat ’ot waitin’ agin your return. You ought to be back inside two hours, eh, Jarge?”
“Why, as to that, Peter,” answered Mr. Potter in his placid manner, “what is to be, will be, I rackon!” And opening a door he led them forth by a discreetly unobtrusive passage that brought them to a back lane, to a footpath skirting the rope walk, and so to a steep upland, rising against the stars.
Once clear of the village, Mr. Potter went at a pace that Sir John found somewhat trying by reason of the difficult country. Moreover, his hurt arm irked him; but Mr. Pym strode unfaltering, up hill and down, despite the heavy musket he bore, and Sir Hector’s long legs seemed tireless.
Though there was no moon as yet, the stars made a palpitant glow, a glimmering dusk wherein all objects loomed up vague and unfamiliar. To Sir John the dim forms of his silent companions seemed like phantoms in a phantom world; stumbling and breathless he struggled on, feeling as one in a nightmare, conscious of spectral shapes that reached out ghostly arms, or touched him with clammy fingers—things that by day were trees and bushes, but now were things very evil and sinister.
On he stumbled, sometimes treading the dust of a road, but mostly they seemed to be climbing or descending some grassy slope.
Mr. Potter went by ways known only to himself; he led them through narrow lanes deep-sunk in the chalk, through black alleys roofed by tangled thickets and dense-growing bushes, leafy tunnels sweet with honeysuckle; up and up and down steep, thymey slopes, across lush meadows where the feet sank deep, past brooks that gurgled sleepily in the dark; on and ever on, reeling and sweating through a windless darkness, until, breasting a slope, there met them a sweet, cool breath and to their ears came the hoarse murmur of the sea. Then Mr. Potter halted, and when he spoke it was in a whisper:
“Yonder lays Cuckmere, sirs ... tide’ll be at flood in ’arf an hour, I rackon, an’ the True Believer should be a-layin’ hove-to out yonder. Afore Sharkie stands in he’ll show two lights—white above red, which means, ‘Is arl clear?’ Then, if there be spies yonder they’ll swing a lanthorn from the cliff, which means, ‘Arl clear.’ So bide ye here, sirs, an’ watch fur Sharkie’s signal whiles I tak’ a look round. But dappen ye see Potter’s wepping flash, why, then—run for your lives ... an’ softly it be!” So saying Mr. Potter dropped upon hands and knees, crawled away and vanished.
Sir John, panting upon the grass, could make out the loom of precipitous cliff, the vague line of shore, the white foam of incoming tide; upon his right hand crouched Mr. Pym, the barrel of his musket cutting across the stars, upon his left knelt Sir Hector, bulking more gigantic than nature in the dimness; and then he was startled by Mr. Potter’s voice immediately behind him:
“Back, sirs, back an’ easy it is, for y’r lives!... They sojers be right afore us—thick as mushrooms ... aye, thick as ’rooms they be, so easy it is, sirs ... we must to the beach ... foller Potter, sirs ... an’ tread cautious!”
Gliding like phantoms, they followed whither Mr. Potter led, while ever the beat of the incoming waves grew louder. Suddenly beneath Sir John’s foot a piece of rotten driftwood snapped, seeming to him loud as a pistol-shot, and he stood, breath in check, half expecting a hoarse challenge and the roaring flash of musketry; instead, he heard Mr. Potter’s whisper:
“Lay down, sirs ... easy! Now watch the sea yonder!”
To Sir John, thus outstretched, hearing only the throb of his own heart and remembering all those men who lay so murderously silent, so patiently watchful and expectant, it seemed that looming cliff and vague foreshore were places of supreme horror, since death lurked there; the very night seemed foul of it.
And then came Mr. Potter’s soft, untroubled whisper:
“Yonder, sirs!... Yonder cometh Sharkie Nye!... D’ye see yon twinkle?... Up she swings—the white!... Now the red! Aye, yonder lays the True Believer hove to an’ waitin’ the answerin’ signal.... Watch the cliff, sirs——”
Almost as he spoke, was an answering beam of light upon the grim headland, a light that winked once or twice and then was swiftly lowered until it hung suspended half-way down the cliff.
“O Geordie-man—O Geordie!” whispered Sir Hector. “’Tis betrayed ye are, lad—yon proves it beyond a’ doot!”
“Aye, by the Pize,” whispered Mr. Potter, “yonder’s black treachery! A light a-top o’ cliff any fule might show ... but a light a-dangle ’arf-way down!... Look, sir—God love us ... Sharkie be a-standin’ in——”
“To his death, Geordie—himsel’ and a’ his lads!”
“Not whiles Potter can waarn ’em, sirs!” And, speaking, Mr. Potter got to his knees, but there Mr. Pym’s grip on his leg arrested him.
“What’s to do, George?” he inquired.
“Liddle enough, sir, but arl I can.... Potter be a-goin’ down yonder to th’ edge o’ the tide, an’ soon as they be nigh enough I lets fly with both my pistols——”
“And commit suicide, George Potter!”
“Why, they sojers may miss me, sir ... an’ I shall run amazin’ quick and—hark, sir ... Sharkie be a-towin’ in wi’ his boats!” Sure enough, faint though distinct was the sound of oars.
“Lord love me!” exclaimed Mr. Potter, his placidity quite gone. “They be closer ashore than I thought ... loose my leg, sir!”
“Not so, George!” answered the painter. “Your plan is extreme clumsy and offers but problematical chance o’ success whiles you run great risk o’ wounds or death, and Captain Nye may be nothing advantaged. Now, upon the other hand——”
“Mus’ Pym, Mus’ Pym, it be no time to arg’—lemme go, sir!”
“Heark’ee now, George Potter, ’twill take Sharkie Nye some half-hour to tow into musket-shot in this dark whiles yon lanthorn, though a fairish distance, is yet well within range ... nay, patience, George, lie still and listen to me! The trouble seems to be yonder lanthorn—very well, let us incontinent extinguish yon lanthorn....”
“Aye, but how, sir—how?”
“Hold thy tongue, George, and give me elbow-room.”
“Why—why, Mus’ Pym,” gasped Potter, “you never think as you can manage ... so fur ... sich a liddle bit of a thing as yon lanthorn?”
“With a bow and arrow, George, which was a weapon of less precision than such musket as mine, the worthy Tell split an apple imposed upon his small son’s head ... and to-night ... hum! Give me room, George!”
Mr. Pym extended himself comfortably at full length; they heard the sharp click as he cocked his long piece, watched him level it across convenient rock, held their breaths while he dwelt upon his aim; a spurt of fire, a roar that reverberated far and wide, a puff of smoke ... and the swinging light was not. Ensued a moment of utter stillness, then from seaward came an answering flash, hoarse commands, the red and white lights vanished, and thereafter a riot of sound as the gloom of cliff and foreshore was stabbed by musketry fire; and, lying face down upon the grass, Sir John heard the whistle and hum of bullets in the air above him.
“Quick!” cried Potter. “Run fur it, sirs, whiles they reload.... They marked Mus’ Pym’s flash an’ some on ’em’s arter us—so quick it be!”
A panting minute or so across smooth turf, a stumbling descent, a desperate scrambling over loose pebbles, a breathless race across wet sand, a groping among boulders ... and Sir John found himself alone; he was standing thus, staring dazedly about him, in his ears the shouting of his nearer pursuers, when from the dimness above a long arm reached forth, a mighty hand grasped coat collar, and he was swung from his feet, dragged through a rocky fissure, and found himself crouched beside Sir Hector.
“Aha, Johnnie,” whispered the giant, hugging him until he blenched with the pain of his arm, “is this no’ a bonny place? They ca’ it Pook’s Kitchen—forbye, there’s few as kens it ... the De’il himsel’ couldna find us here, y’ ken.... Whisht, lie ye still, Johnnie; yon be only Pym a-cursing, an’ sma’ wonder; the puir gentleman was forced tae leave his gun behind.... O Pymmie-man,” quoth Sir Hector, wedging his vast bulk deeper into the narrow cave, “’tis a sinfu’, waefu’, shamefu’ thing ye should hae wasted y’r gifts on paint when ye wad hae made sic a bonny musketeer!”
“So far as my memory serves,” sighed Mr. Pym the Painter, “I dropped it just after we crossed the pebble-ridge.”