Author: George Manville Fenn
Category: Nonfiction
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CHAPTER NINE.
It was about a fortnight later when Aleck Donne went down the gardendirectly after breakfast with the full intent, after thinking it over agood deal, of charging old Onesimus Dunning, the gardener, with beingleagued with the Eilygugg smugglers.
"If I told uncle," he argued, "he would be sent away at once; but thatwould be doing the poor fellow a lot of harm and perhaps make him worse.Perhaps, too, it would make him nurse up a feeling of spite against us,and he would set the Eilygugg people against us as well. So I won't dothat, but I'm not going to have the nasty old imposter smiling at me andpretending to be so innocent. I just want him to understand that I'mnot such a child as to be ignorant of his tricks. I'll let him see thatI know why he wanted me not to go along yonder by the west cliff."
Aleck knew exactly where the man was likely to be, for he had beenmowing the lawn, sweeping up the fragment result, and wheeling it away.
"He'll be stacking it round the cucumber frame," thought Aleck, "to keepin the heat. By the way, I wonder what became of the beautiful cukethat lay, at the back under the big leaves--we didn't have it indoors!I'm sure he takes some of them away. Uncle never misses anything out ofthe garden, but I do."
The lad went round to the kitchen garden, which sloped round towards thesouth, so beautifully sheltered that it was a perfect hot-bed of itselfin the summer, and there, sure enough, was the heaped-up barrow of freshgreen mowings, and one armful had been piled up to half hide a part ofthe rough wooden frame.
But no gardener was visible.
"Not here," thought Aleck. "Well, perhaps I was wrong about that cuke."
The next minute he had raised the clumsily-glazed sliding sash, with ahot puff of moist air smelling delicious as it reached his nostrils,while he propped up the glass, reached in, and began turning over theprickly leaves, laying bare the rather curly little specimens of thecool, pleasant fruit; but there was no sign of the big, well-grownvegetable.
"Was I mistaken?" mused the lad. "No, there was one, and there's theremains of the stalk, showing where the cucumber has been cut. What ashame!" he muttered. "I'll tell him of that too. Uncle would be angryif he knew."
Aleck closed the frame again and began to look round.
"What a shame!" he said, again. "Nice sort of a gardener to have--lazy,a smuggler, and little better than a thief. I'll just give himsomething to think about when I find him. Oh, there he is!"
For just then the boy looked up, to see the old gardener standing on thehighest part of the sheltering cliff, his back to him, and shading hiseyes as he looked out to sea.
"Ahoy! What are you doing there?" shouted Aleck.
The man started and looked down.
"Ships--men-o'-war--going behind the point," shouted the gardener.
Men-of-war going into Rockabie harbour! That news was sufficient toupset all Aleck's arrangements. He forgot all about the lesson he wasgoing to give the gardener, and rushed indoors, to hurry upstairs andrap sharply at his uncle's study, and, getting no answer he threw openthe door to cross the room and seize the glass from where it hung by itssling. Then, dashing out again, he ran downstairs, crossed the garden,mounted the cliff zigzag path, and was soon after focussing the glassupon the men-of-war, which proved to be only a good-sized sloop followedby a trim-looking white-sailed cutter, both vessels with plenty ofcanvas spread, and gliding steadily over the smooth sunlit sea.
"Oh, I wish I'd known sooner!" groaned the lad, for he had hardly fixedthe leading vessel before her bows began to disappear behind the point,and before ten minutes had elapsed the cutter was out of sight as well.
"I don't know that I should much care about going to sea," mutteredAleck, closing the glass, "but the ships do look so beautiful with theirsails set, gliding along. What a pity! What a pity! I do wish I hadknown sooner."
"What are they going to do there?" thought the boy, as he closed theglass and walked back to the cottage, where upon going upstairs toreplace the glass he found his uncle in from his morning walk and aboutto settle down for a few hours' work.
"Well, Aleck, boy," he said; "been scanning the sea?"
"Yes, uncle; two vessels came along into Rockabie, but I only got aglimpse of them."
"Too late, eh? Well, why not run over in the boat? I want somethingdone in the town."
"Do you, uncle? Oh!" cried the boy, half wild with excitement, as heturned and rushed to the little mirror over the chimney-piece to glancein.
"Yes," said the old man, smiling. "There, nothing shows now except thatlittle darkness under your eyes. I'm quite run out of paper, my boy.Go and get me some. But--er--no fighting this time."
"No, uncle," cried the lad, flushing up; and then, quickly: "There's abeautiful soft breeze, dead on to the land, and it will serve going andcoming."
"Off with you, then, while it holds. Paper the same as before. Getback in good time."
Aleck wanted no further incitement. The "wigging," as he termed it,that was to be given to Dunning would keep, and he avoided the man as hehurried down into the gorge, stepped the mast and hooked on the rudder,guided the little vessel along the narrow, zigzag, canal-like harbour,and without an eye this time for the birds or beauty of the scene, hewas soon after lying back steering and holding the sheet, while thewell-filled sail tugged impatiently as if resenting being restrained.
Aleck had fully determined to avoid the boys of Rockabie that morning,and he was half disposed to hug himself with the idea that after thethrashing Big Jem had received they would interfere with him no more.But he was quite wrong, for the port boys were too full of vitality, andalways on the look-out for some means of getting rid of the effervescingmischief that bubbled and foamed within them.
The distant sight of the King's vessels heading for the port was quiteenough to attract them to the pier, and there they were in force, wellon the look-out for something to annoy so as to give themselvesemployment till the sloop and cutter came in.
There was the something all ready in the person of Tom Bodger, who wasseated upon a ship's fender, one of those Brobdingnagian netted ballscovered with a network of tarred rope, used to keep the edge of thestone pier from crushing and splintering the sides of the vessel.
This formed a capital cushion, albeit rather sticky in hot weather, andwas planted close up to a stone mooring-post, which acted as a back tolean against, while, with his wooden legs stretched straight out, theman employed himself busily in netting, his fingers going rapidly andthe meshes seeming to run off the ends of his fingers.
Intent upon his work, active with hands and arms, but rather helpless asto his legs, Tom Bodger was a splendid butt for the exercise of theboys' pertinacious tactics, and with mischief sparkling out of the youngrascals' eyes they made their plans of approach and began to buzz roundhim like flies, calling names, asking questions, laughing and jeeringtoo, all of which had but little effect upon the man, who was an adeptat what he called giving "tongue." And so the boys found, for theydecidedly got the worst of it.
Soon after, growing bolder, some of the most daring began to makeapproaches to snatch at the net or the ball of water-cord, but theygained nothing by that. For Tom Bodger never went out without hisstick, a weapon he used for offence as well as defence, and there wasnot a boy there in Rockabie who did not know how hard he could hit.
A few little experiences of this sort of thing were quite enough to makethe party draw off and take to the hurling of missiles. But they didnot confine themselves to heads, tails, and bones of fish, for they wererather scarce, so they took to the stones which were swept up in ridgesby the sea right across the harbour.
But even this was dangerous, for the sailor could "field" the stonesthrown at him and return them with a correctness of aim and activitythat would have driven a skilful cricketer half mad with envy.
Finally, several of the bigger lads held a kind of conference, but notunseen, for though apparently bending intently over his netting, thesailor was watching them with one eye and ask
ing himself what gamethey--to wit, the boys--were going, as he put it, to start next.
Old discipline on a man-of-war had made Bodger thoroughly alert, andsuspecting a rush he took hold of his ball of net twine, unrolledsufficient to make many meshes, and then put it down again, seizing theopportunity to draw the stout oaken cudgel he generally carried wellwithin reach of his hand.
Then, netting away as skilfully as a woman, he indulged in a heartylaugh, chuckling to himself as he thought of the accuracy and force withwhich he could send it skimming over the ground, spinning round thewhile and looking like a star.
"That'll give one on 'em a sore leg for a week if I do have to throw it.On'y wish I could do it with a string tied to it so as to haul it back.Well, why not?" he added, eagerly, and then under cover of his nettinghe unwound thirty or forty yards of the twine, cut it off, and tied theend to the middle of his cudgel.
"That'll do it," he muttered, and chuckled again with satisfaction. ForTom lived in the days when the Australian boomerang was an unknownweapon; otherwise he would have cut and carved till he had contrivedone, and given himself no rest till he could hurl it with unerring aimand the skill that would bring it back to his hand.
The sloop-of-war and the Revenue cutter, its companion, had been lyingat anchor some hundred yards from the end of the pier, and every now andthen the sailor glanced at the trim vessels with their white sails andthe sloop's carefully-squared yards--all "ataunto," as he termed it--andmore than one sigh escaped his lips as he thought that never again wouldhe tread the white deck that he helped to holy-stone, let alone showthat he was one of the smartest of the crew to go up aloft.
And as he glanced at the vessels from time to time, he, to use hiswords, "put that and that together," and noticed that, contrary tocustom, there was not a single hearty-looking young fisherman loungingupon the rail that overhung the head of the harbour.
"Smells a rat," muttered the old sailor. "Like as not they've droppedanchor here to see if there are any likely-looking lads waiting to bepicked up after dark. Why, there's a good dozen that would be worthanything to a skipper, and I could put the press-gang on to their trailas easy as could be; but they're neighbours, and I can't do them such adirty turn. Now, if they'd on'y take a dozen of these young beauties itwould be a blessing to the place; but, no, the skipper wouldn't havethem at a gift. But that's what they're after. Hullo, here comes aboat!"
"Oh!" he laughed, as he saw the sloop's cutter lowered down with itscrew and a couple of officers in the stern-sheets. "The old game.Coming ashore for fresh meat and vegetables. I know that little game."
Bodger went on netting away, watching the boat out of the corner of oneeye as it was rowed smartly up to the harbour steps, where the oars wereturned up; and leaving the youth with him in charge of the boat's crew,the officer sprang out with one of the men and hurried up the steps,gave a supercilious glance at the crippled sailor, who touched his hat,and then went along towards the town.
"Yes, that's it," said the sailor to himself. "Having a look round.There'll be a gang landed to-night as sure as my name's Bodger."
The thinker made a few more meshes and then had a glance down on theboat and her crew, his eyes dwelling longest upon the young officer, whohad taken out a small glass, through which he began to examine the town.
"Middy," said Bodger. "Smart-looking lad too. What's their game now?"he continued, as the boys drew closer together. "They'll be up to somegame or another directly. Shying old fish at that youngster's uniform,or some game or another. Strikes me that if they do they'll find thatthey've caught a tartar. Just what they'd like to do--shy half a dozenold bakes' tails at his blue and white jacket. I might say a word tohim and save it, but if I did I should be saving them young monkeys too,and--look at that now!--if that arn't Master Aleck's boat coming roundthe pynte! They sees it too--bless 'em! Now they'll be arter him,safe. That'll save the middy, but it won't save Master Aleck. Strikesme I'd better put my netting away and clear the decks for action."
Tom Bodger's clearing for action consisted in turning himself aside sothat he could drag a neatly-folded duck bag off the fender, and stuffinghis partly-made net and twine, with stirrup, mesh, and needle, insidebefore tying up the neck with a piece of yarn.
But his eyes were busy the while, and he watched all that went on,Aleck's boat running in fast, the boys whispering together, their leadersending off a couple towards the town end of the pier, and eliciting themental remark from the sailor:
"Going arter Big Jem for twopence. Are we going to have another fight?Well, if we are he arn't going to tackle two on 'em, for I'm going tosee fair with my stick and the crew o' that cutter to look on to form aring."
By the time he had thought out this observation it was time for him tocarefully ascend to the top of one of the great mooring-posts, theflattest-topped one by preference. How it was done was a puzzle, and itdrew forth the observations of the cutter's crew, while the midshipmanin charge shouted "Bravo!" But somehow or other, by the use of hishands and a peculiar hop, Tom Bodger brought himself up perpendicularlyupon the top of the post, steadied himself with his stick, and then heldhis head aloft.
That was enough. Aleck was near enough in to recognise the figure andcomprehend the signal, which in Tom's code read:
"Right and ready, my lad. Steer for here."