Chapter THE TENTH: The Fire Bell at the Towers (6)

On Wednesday evening, Doubledick left the inn, and walked along the southward bank of the stream in the direction of the church. He had left word that he was going to see Petherick about a Christmas dinner which the Vicar was accustomed to give to the children and young people of the parish, in a barn upon his glebe. He spent an hour or two with Petherick in his cottage near the church, received from him the Vicar's orders for squab-pie (a hotch-potch of mutton, apples, onions and raisins, with sugar and seasoning), "figgy pudden" (which is Cornish for plum-pudding), and other delectables of the season, and having arranged with the sexton the commission to be paid him for passing on an order which he could have placed with no one else, he drank a parting glass and started ostensibly for home. It was a fine night, moonless but clear, with that crisp coldness in the air that exhilarates. Instead of walking along the road by which he had come, Doubledick struck off to the left into a lane that would bring him, after a long round, to the south cliff. There were no houses hereabouts, the church being at least half a mile from the nearest dwelling.

When the innkeeper came to the spot where the ground began to rise, he did not turn to the right, along the path that led to the bridge over the stream, and was the nearest way home, but trudged directly onward, puffing a little as he went higher. It was very dark, or he might perhaps have seen a figure silently stalking him. Every now and again he stopped to take breath and to glance in the direction of the village. At these times the shadowy figure dropped down behind a furze bush, and there waited until Doubledick, with a grunt and sigh, again went on his way.

Presently he came to Mr. Polwhele's house on the cliff. He did not pass it by, nor approach the front door, but stole to the window, where a light shone through the blind, and gently tapped at it. In a few moments the door opened. Mr. Polwhele's figure was for an instant silhouetted against the light from a hanging-lamp in the passage. Doubledick entered quickly, and the door was shut again.

The silent form of the second man was motionless and invisible in the darkness. But when the door was closed, it tip-toed swiftly across the grass, and if a third person had been in the neighbourhood he might have seen the head and shoulders of a fisher in strong relief against the illuminated blind. But there was no spectator. The fisher placed his ear against the glass, and remained in that posture for several minutes. Then he withdrew, muttering his disappointment, and posted himself behind a clump of gorse a few yards away, where he could keep his eye on the door.

"Well, Doubledick," said the riding-officer, when he had given his visitor a chair, "'tis to be, then?"

"Iss, sir, and a big thing too. Maister Trevanion hev L200 ventured, and Tonkin the same."

"And where is it to be this time?"

"At the creek, sir, same as time afore last. They did so well then that they couldn' think of a better place, the den bein' broke up."

"And when?"

"Thursday night, or ye med say Friday mornin', accordin' to the wind."

"They mean to run, and not to sink, I suppose?"

"Iss, sure, sir. Next day bein' Christmas, ye see, they must hev the stuff carried off at once. I'd axe 'ee, sir, not to lay hands on the men; seize the tubs, in course, but I don't want 'ee to do any hurt to the fellers."

"Well, I'll do what I can; but you know what soldiers are. They've been itching for months to fight Boney, and they want to keep their hand in, you know."

"True, sir. Ah well! the carriers will run fast enough; 'tis only Zacky Tonkin and the rest I be afeard for; they'll fight, 'tis sartin-sure."

"You're a thorough-paced scoundrel, you know, Doubledick," said the riding-officer. "'Pon my word, if it weren't my duty to stop smuggling by hook or by crook, 'twould give me the greatest pleasure in life to see you tarred and feathered. I warned you, you remember. You'll be caught one of these days, mark my words, and the money you're heaping up won't save you then, my man."

"Hee! hee!" laughed Doubledick uneasily. "Name it all, was there any other way to save myself from jail? 'Tis a risk, I own it; it do gie me the creeps in the night sometimes when I think o't. And be-jowned, sir, when you gie me the L50 for this job, I'll pack up my traps and go into other parts wi' my wife, and spend my old age in peace and quietness, if she'll let me. Ye won't stop me, sir?"

"Not I. 'Tis dirty work, and I'd rather fight the trade fair and square, 'pon my word I would."

"'Tis the last time, then, for me. And now I must be traipsin' home-along."

Mr. Polwhele accompanied him to the door. On the step Doubledick turned and said in low tones, his words, however, being distinct in the clear night air:

"Ye'll mind and not take Zacky, sir? I hain't no fancy for blood-money."

"I'll do what I can. Good-night."

He stood for a moment or two watching the innkeeper's receding form, then turned to re-enter the house. But it happened that, in the very act of turning, he caught sight of a dark figure slinking away from a furze bush in Doubledick's wake. He slipped into the house, turned out the lamps in the passage and the room, and in a quarter of a minute came out again, the darkness completely veiling his movements. With swift steps he followed the two figures down the slope, drawing near to the second of them under cover of the bushes. Having assured himself that Doubledick was being deliberately shadowed, he bent low, rapidly made a circuit, and concealed himself behind a clump which the stealthy pursuer must pass. As the man came abreast of him, wholly engrossed in keeping the innkeeper in view, Polwhele suddenly sprang out, caught his victim by the throat so that he could utter no more than the faintest gurgle, and bore him to the ground. Then, whipping out his pistol, he whispered:

"If you make a sound I will shoot you. Get up and come with me."

Keeping a firm hand on the fallen man's collar, he lugged him to his feet, marched him back to the house, and thrust him through the still open door, which he bolted behind him.

"So 'tis you, Jake Tonkin," he said, as he relit the lamp.

"Iss, 'tis I. Let me go, Maister. Doubledick said 'twas I that split, the villain! Let me go. Scrounch me if the two-faced wretch don't suffer for this!"

"I'm afraid I can't let you go yet, my son," said the riding-officer. "Now 'tis no good kicking or shouting. Remain quiet, and in a day or two you shall go, safe and sound. If you give trouble I shall have to deal with you as your folk dealt with Penwarden."

Jake sullenly submitted. Mr. Polwhele gave him supper, then locked him into a room where the window was heavily barred.

"I am sick of this," he thought, as he returned to his own room. "'Tis well Doubledick is going, or, by George, there would be murder."

Next morning Sam Pollex, going down to the village to buy some raisins for a plum-pudding, overtook Susan Berry, John Trevanion's housemaid. "Aw, Ma'am, ye do look wisht, sure enough," said Sam, remarking the gloomy aspect of Maidy Susan's usually merry face.

"And so I be, Sam," she replied, "I wish I were to-home, I do."

"Now that be cruel to we, daze me if it bean't. Why do 'ee wish sech a cruel thing, Ma'am?"

"Why, to-morrer be Christmas Eve, and there'll be no ashton fagot, and no egg-hot, like us have to-home."

"What be they, Maidy?"

"Don't 'ee know that? Why, the fagot be made of ash-sticks tied about wi' nine twigs, and on Christmas Eve 'tis dragged to the Squire's hearth and set ablaze; and then we do dance and jump for cakes, and dive for apples in a tub o' water. Oh, 'tis sech fun, you can't think! And then we drink egg-hot----"

"What's that, if it be so pleasin'?"

"Why, silly chiel, 'tis cider and eggs and spice, made as hot as 'ee can drink it."

"Aw, I know what that is. Mess is what we do name it, and as for fagot, we do call that mock, only it bean't sticks, but a mighty block o' wood. Squire don't hev it now, since he hev been so poor. But why don't 'ee axe yer maister if ye can do as ye do to-home?"

"I don't know what be come to Maister. He be all hippety-like--looks as grave as a church owl, and him goin' to be married, too. Pa'son be goin' to pray for un fust time o' Sunday."

"Well, marriage be a fearsome thing, I s'pose. I seed a weddin' up-along at church once, and theer was a little Noah's flood o' tears. I don't think I'll ever be married."

"You be only a chiel yet. But there now, 'tis ever since Maister brought they great lubbers into house, and gied 'em guns and swords and I don't know what all. Seems he be afeard o' summat. Do 'ee think that monster Boney will come and eat the poor childer here, Sam?"

"Not he. He dussn't do it. Don't 'ee be afeard, now, Maidy dear. I'll look out for un, and if I do see un I'll ring our bell so powerful loud that all the brave men in the country will run to defend 'ee."

"We've got a bell, too."

"Not sech a banger as ours, I warrant 'ee. I do wish Squire were rich; then we'd hev the mock, and a great big figgy pudden, not a little small one wi' half a pound o' figs in it; and Squire would axe 'ee and all the country to come and join us, and ye'd come in yer fine new gown that I'm goin' to gie ye. But theer, 'tis not to be, and 'twill only make us wisht to think o't."

"Look 'ee see, Sam: what a throng o' folk! Whatever is the matter?"

They had come within sight of the village green, where a crowd of men, women, and children were talking excitedly.

"What be all this stoor, Ike?" asked Sam of the young fisher.

"Why, Jake Tonkin can't be found nowhere. He wented up-along yestere'en to wood to get some mistletoe, and never come back."

"Never come back?"

"No. His mother be in a tarrible state, Zacky bein' away and all."

"Sure 'a didn' go wi' Zacky to Rusco?"

"Now that's foolish. Didn' I say 'a wented for mistletoe yestere'en, and Zacky sailed off in mornin'.'

"So 'a did, to be sure. Here's riding-officer; let us tell him."

Mr. Polwhele rode up into the midst of the crowd.

"Well, neighbours, what's to do?" he cried.

"Jake Tonkin be gone a-lost, Maister," shouted a score of voices in answer.

"Lost, is he? He's big enough to take care of himself, surely. Isn't he with his father?"

"No, Maister," piped a small boy. "Zacky Tonkin be----"

"Wisht yer clatter!" cried the child's mother, catching him by the arm and shaking him.

"Who saw him last?" asked the riding-officer.

"Who seed un last?" repeated several voices. "Here be Un Tonkin; she'll tell to we."

"'A wented last night to get mistletoe, sir," said Mrs. Tonkin, with a pale, anxious face. "Never hev he stayed out all night afore, and I be afeard something bad hev come to un."

"Oh, dear no! I can't imagine anything of the kind," said the officer, cheerily. "Don't be down-hearted. He'll come home-along by-and-by as large as life. I'll ride to the wood and look about, and tell my men to search too. The young rascal! Up to some mischief, you may be sure. Go home, my good woman, and don't distress yourself, and you folks, instead of standing gossiping here, go and hunt. Christmas Day is coming, you know, and we must have Jake back in time for the parson's dinner."

But the day closed without the discovery of any trace of the missing lad, and some of Mrs. Tonkin's kind neighbours were already condoling with her on the loss of her only son, and assuring her that Zacky would be in a terrible way when he came home.

Mr. Mildmay and the riding-officer supped together before setting out, the one by sea, the other by land, for the scene of the expected run.

"Would to heaven we had never come to terms with Doubledick!" said Mr. Polwhele. "Never again for me, Mildmay. Set a thief to catch a thief, they say, but I don't know how you feel: I feel myself a mean rascal, old stager as I am at the game."

"Honestly, I agree with you, and having Jake Tonkin mewed up here complicates things desperately. The moment he is let loose he'll tell his father, and if I know the man, Doubledick's life won't be worth a snap of the finger."

"Well, I warned him. I couldn't foresee that Jake would come upon him in that accidental way. Scheme as we will, Mildmay, there's a Power that overrules us all."

"The best thing we can do now is to warn Doubledick. We've gone into partnership with the fellow, and we can't in honour keep silence. Give him a chance to escape."

"You're right. I'll call at the inn as I ride down, and tell him we have Jake locked up here. That will give him about twelve hours' grace--time to clear away bag and baggage."

When the lieutenant went aboard his cutter, Mr. Polwhele entered the inn.

"Where's Doubledick?" he asked of the inn-keeper's wife.

"He be gone along to Trura, Maister," she replied, in her usual vinegary manner.

"What for?"

"Well, I don't know as it be any business o' yourn, but 'tis to buy some figs for the pa'son's dinner."

"Oh, well, if he comes back, tell him I want to see him first thing in the morning, will you?"

"He hain't done nawthin' agen the law."

"I'm glad of that. Don't forget my message."

Mr. Polwhele left, firmly convinced that Doubledick had become suspicious and already beat a retreat.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST

The Attack on the Towers

That night the Towers was heavy with an atmosphere of gloom. The Squire had remained the whole evening sunk in his chair, not reading, or smoking, speechless, his head bent upon his breast. He had heard from his lawyer that all efforts to transfer the mortgage had as yet proved fruitless: nobody wanted a bond on barren land. The next day but one was Christmas, and the Squire brooded on the melancholy thought that it would be the last Christmas he would spend in his old home. Occasionally he glanced at the motto inscribed above the lintel of the door:

Trevanion, whate'er thy Fortune be,
Hold fast the Rock by the Western Sea.

What a mockery the old legend seemed! He had held fast; now he felt as though some inexorable power were unclenching his nerveless fingers. And the bitterness of his mood was intensified by the foreboding that the old house, and his last rood of land, would go, as all the rest had gone, into the hands of the man who had disgraced his name, and who bore him implacable enmity.

Dick went to bed early, sick at heart, unable to endure the mute misery upon his parents' faces. He meant to rise before it was light, for a purpose which, he sadly felt, he might never accomplish again. It had been his custom for several years to carry to the Parsonage on Christmas Eve a basket of fish of his own catching, as a present to his good friend the Vicar. It was a poor gift, but he had not the means to offer anything better, and Mr. Carlyon was always pleased with it, regarding the spirit in which the simple offering was made.

About an hour before dawn he wakened Sam, and after nibbling a crust, the two boys set off. Experience had taught them that this was the best time to fish at so late a season of the year. The air was damp and raw, with scarcely any wind, and as they issued from the house they shivered, and buttoned their coats high about their necks.

"We must go to the Beal for some tackle, Sam," said Dick. "That will warm us before we go down to the boat."

"Iss. I wish it were to-morrer. Pa'son's dinner will be summat to cheer a poor feller up, these wisht and dismal times. Do 'a think, now, Maister Dick, as we'll ever hev a real Christmas randy up at Towers, same as they do hev at Portharvan?"

"I'm afraid not, Sam. I'm afraid we shan't spend another Christmas at the Towers."

"Well, then, you and I had better go for sojers or sailors. I'm afeard I bean't high enough for a sojer. But sailors get prize-money, old Joe says, and I'd like that, 'cos then I could buy a thing or two for Maidy Susan--and Mistress, too: I wouldn' forget she. Maybe I'd get killed, fightin' the French, but dear life! it wouldn' matter much: we hain't got many friends. I don't s'pose Maidy Susan 'ud fall more 'n two tears, or maybe three."

"None at all, I should think," said Dick.

"Oh, I don't think so bad o' she as that. When I seed her yesterday she said she wished I could go to Dower House to-night. Maister John be goin' to a randy at Portharvan; he'll kiss his young 'ooman under the mistletoe, I reckon."

"And Susan wants you to go to the Dower House and kiss her, I suppose?"

"Now that's too bad, Maister. We bean't neither of us so forward as that. Maidy said she'd like me to go up-along and gie un some o' my merry talk, but jown me if my tongue 'ud run merry wi' things so bad up to home."

"You couldn't go: Father would never allow it. You'll have to be satisfied with the Vicar's nuts and candy, Sam."

They came to their den at the end of the Beal, and remained there for some little time arranging their tackle in the wan glimmer preceding the dawn. Then they emerged, and climbed up beside the big boulder to take a look at the sea, over which a thin mist hung.

"Isn't that the _Isaac and Jacob_?" said Dick, pointing to a vessel tacking to make the fairway between the cliff and the reef.

"Iss, sure. Tonkin be come home wi'out a cargo, seemin'ly, unless he hev run it a'ready."

They watched the lugger creeping slowly toward the harbour. The tide was on the ebb, and there was not enough depth of water upon the reef to allow the vessel to head straight for the jetty. As she crept into the fairway Dick was struck with the unusual appearance of her deck. Amidships it was almost clear except for two or three men; but, herded under the low bulwarks on the weather side, out of sight from the harbour, were a score or more of men whom he recognised by slight indications in their dress to be foreigners. Almost instinctively Dick slipped behind the boulder, pulling Sam with him.

"That's very curious," he whispered, standing so that he could see without being seen.

On the lee side of the vessel, he noticed arms, legs, and here and there a red-capped head protruding from beneath tarpaulins, thrown with apparent carelessness on the deck. Two or three heads also appeared in the hatchway, suggesting that other men were on the companion below. But what struck Dick most of all was the fact that although Nathan Pendry held the tiller, there lolled against the bulwarks near him a stranger whose hat and coat were manifestly Cornish, but whose lower garments were as unmistakably of foreign cut. He was a short, stout man, and he held a pistol, which was pointed at the helmsman.

Dick was so much fascinated and wonderstruck by this extraordinary spectacle that for a few moments he neither spoke nor stirred.

"Be it Boney at last?" whispered Sam, his eyes wide with alarm.

"No, no: Boney would bring thousands. But I can't make it out. We'll run home, Sam, and tell Father."

Creeping round the boulder, and dipping their heads as long as there was any chance of being observed from the lugger, they set off at a breakneck run for the Towers. Dick dashed up to the Squire's room, and knocked at the door.

"Come in," said the Squire. He was awake--had indeed lain sleepless almost all night, thinking miserably of his affairs.

"Father," said Dick, entering, "Tonkin's lugger has just put in with a gang of Frenchmen on board. Pendry is at the helm; there's a fellow standing over him with a pistol. I didn't see Tonkin."

"What on earth does that mean?" cried the Squire, starting up. "Get me my boots, Dick; I'll pull on some clothes, and go up on the roof to take a look at them."

In a few minutes the Squire, Dick, and Sam were behind the parapet of the principal tower, the Squire with his telescope in his hand. Lofty as their perch was, the jetty and the lower part of the village were not in sight, being concealed by the contour of the hill. But they could see the upper houses and the cliffs beyond; the church tower and the red roof of the Parsonage away to the left; and almost every yard of ground between the hilltop and the Towers.

"Shall I ring bell, Maister?" asked Sam.

"No; wait a little. We don't want to make ourselves a laughing-stock. There's nothing in Polkerran to make it worth any Frenchman's while to--Ha! I see it all. 'Tis a trick of Mildmay's, the sly dog. Do you see, Dick? He has disguised himself and his men as Frenchmen, and pounced on Tonkin's lugger with a fine crop aboard. Ha! ha! The neatest feat I ever heard of."

"I'm rather doubtful about that, sir," said Dick. "The faces I saw weren't Cornish."

"It would be a poor disguise if they were. You may be sure I'm right, and we shall have Mildmay coming up to breakfast by-and-by with a fine tale of tubs. I slept badly, Dick; I'll return to my bed for an hour or two."

Dick remained with Sam on the roof. He was not at all convinced that his father was right. It was difficult to conceive what object a band of Frenchmen could have in attacking so small a village, yet he felt sure that they were Frenchmen, and that their visit was not an ordinary smuggling affair. After a long look through his spy-glass he said to Sam:

"There's no smoke, no sound of firing---no noise at all. We can't see anything here, Sam; let us take a run to the Beal again."

But at that moment he saw a man rise over the crest of the hill; immediately behind him came others. They were armed with muskets and cutlasses, and advanced rapidly and in a manner that suggested a definite goal.

"Off to the turret and pull the bell, Sam!" cried Dick. He rushed downstairs to his father's room again.

"Thirty or forty armed men are marching from the village, sir," he said. "I think they're coming to attack us."

"Bless my soul, what fools they must be!" said the Squire with a mirthless laugh. "There's nothing here worth firing a shot for. Ah! there's the bell. We'll see if 'tis more effective than last time we rang it. And we'll give them a warm reception, my boy, by George we will! Go and bring Reuben to me."

So crowded was the next hour, and so conflicting were the accounts given subsequently, in all honesty, by actors in the drama, that the writing of a clear and coherent narrative is a matter of some difficulty. Mr. Carlyon diligently questioned everyone who could throw a light on the separate incidents, and out of this material compiled a long chapter for his history of the parish. But the prolixity of his style, and his habit of interrupting his narrative with classical parallels and references to abstruse authors, render his book quite unsuitable to the present age, and make it necessary to treat his manuscript as the modern historian treats his sources.

When the _Isaac and Jacob_ was moored alongside the jetty, the tarpaulins that covered the deck were thrown aside, the men whom they had concealed sprang to their feet, and, joined by others who swarmed up the companion way, rushed ashore behind their leader, Jean Delarousse of Roscoff. There were but two or three of the Polkerran folk visible. A large number of the fishers were five or six miles away, having affairs of their own to attend to. The majority of the population were still abed. A dozen miners, due for the day shift in an hour's time, were breakfasting. Only the smoke rising into the air from the chimneys of their cottages gave sign of life.

The few men who were out and about fled incontinently to their homes at sight of the fifty determined Frenchmen, armed with muskets, cutlasses, and pistols, advancing across the few yards of open space that separated the jetty from the nearest houses. It was evident that the invaders had prearranged their operations. Twelve of their number separated from the main body and went off hastily in couples, three to the right, three to the left, until they reached the last dwelling in either direction. Then doubling up the hills to right and left, they posted themselves around the village in a half circle, at intervals of about a hundred yards. Their object manifestly was to prevent any villager from breaking through, and carrying news of the raid into the country beyond. The Dower House and the Towers were naturally not included in the cordon.

While this movement was being carried out, Delarousse led the rest of his force straight to the Five Pilchards. The door was already open; the miners usually paid an early visit to the inn before they started for their work. Delarousse on entering was confronted by an elderly woman of shrewish aspect, who stood like a dragon behind the shining taps.

"Ze Towers, vere Trevanion live--it is zat big house on ze cliff?" he asked.

Mrs. Doubledick nodded. Fright bereft her of speech.

"Vere is Doubledick?" asked the Frenchman.

The answer was a shake of the head; whereupon Delarousse, ejaculating "Ah, bah!" returned to his followers, who were collected about the entrance, and led all but six of them up the hill. Like a prudent general, he took care to secure his communications.

Though he presumed that Mrs. Doubledick's shake of the head signified ignorance of her husband's whereabouts, in this he was in error. Doubledick had returned home late at night, unaware of the impending crisis in his affairs. His wife gave him Mr. Polwhele's message, and he anticipated a very pleasant interview with the riding-officer on his return from circumventing the smugglers. Rising early, he happened to see from his bedroom window the crowd of Frenchmen swarming from the lugger, and without waiting to finish dressing, he ran down to the taproom, pulled up a trap-door behind the bar, and descended into the capacious cellar beneath, having strictly charged his wife not to reveal his whereabouts. He was shaking with fear, rather of possible consequences which his imagination foresaw than of immediate bodily harm. Delarousse could scarcely fail to discover before long that Doubledick had given him misleading information, and he was a man whose wrath it was not wise to face.

Between thirty and forty Frenchmen, strong, hardy fellows, marched rapidly up the hill behind their leader, whose agility was remarkable in one so corpulent. They had just risen upon the crest when the clang of a bell struck upon their ears.

"En avant, mes gars!" cried Delarousse. "Courez, a toutes jambes!"

And being on fairly level ground, they broke into a double.

The Squire, being now convinced that the Towers, as the most conspicuous dwelling-house in the neighbourhood, was the object of the Frenchmen's raid, displayed none of that indecision and vacillation which so often beset him in the matters of every-day life. He was now keen, alert, and ready, as became a man who had served in the King's navy. He smiled grimly as he saw the Frenchmen hasting towards him, as yet half a mile away. "A pack of fools!" he thought; "but 'tis hard that I should be molested when on the brink of ruin."

In a few sharp, decisive words he bade Dick and Reuben close and bolt the doors and shutters, and haul against the former such heavy articles of furniture as they could move in the few minutes at their disposal. Meanwhile he himself collected several old muskets that were at hand, with powder and slugs, in some cases relics of ancient trophies of arms treasured by the family. If he could hold the enemy at bay even for a short time, their project would be ruined, for the alarm bell and the sound of shots would arouse the whole countryside, and unless the invaders were supported by other vessels, they must soon retire to the lugger. At the first glance he had seen that they were not French regular soldiers, and concluded that their landing was not the foretaste of a general invasion, but merely a chance filibustering raid.

In the turret Sam was pulling the bell-rope with short, quick jerks. His brain was in a whirl. The advance of the Frenchmen was hidden from him, but looking out of the narrow window in the opposite direction, he spied, less than a minute after the first clang, Joe Penwarden hurrying along towards the Towers as fast as his old legs would carry him. Running to the opposite side of the chamber, where a door admitted to the house, he yelled down the stairs:

"Maister, here be old Joe a-comin'. Let un in by the back door."

"Run, Dick," said the Squire, "you're quickest. An addition to the garrison is welcome."

Dick flew to the back door, whither Sam had summoned Penwarden through the turret window. During these few seconds the strokes of the bell were very irregular, but they did not cease.

"What is it, Maister Dick?" said the old man, as Dick closed and barricaded the door behind him.

"A gang of Frenchmen are running to attack us. They landed from Tonkin's lugger about ten minutes ago. Go to Father, Joe; he's in the front room over the porch. I'm going to the roof to see what they are doing."

He leapt up the stairs three at a time, and emerged on the leads of the tower, whence, sheltered by the parapet, he could observe the enemy in safety. They were now within two or three hundred yards of the house. Dick was surprised that there was no sign of pursuers from the village. Now that the feeling between his family and the people was less acute, he had expected that the bell would already have summoned a concourse of fishers, miners, and men of all occupations. He was surprised, too, that the alarm was not echoed by the new bell which had recently been rigged up in the Dower House. Surely at such a moment personal feuds might well be forgotten, and private enemies unite to beat off a public foe. But between the Towers and the hill not a man was to be seen except the advancing Frenchmen. At the Dower House there was no sign of life or movement, a strange circumstance that set him wondering. Why was not John Trevanion alarmed at a French raid? Was it possible that he knew of it beforehand, approved it, had even arranged it? Having failed in some of his schemes hitherto, had he now joined hands with alien filibusters to deal his cousin a crowning stroke?

As his eyes ranged round, Dick suddenly caught sight of a large vessel looming in the mist in a straight line with the head of the Beal. Its shape was very indistinct and blurred, but there was a certain familiarity in its aspect, and a sudden conviction flashed upon Dick that it was the same vessel as he had seen twice before in unusual and mysterious circumstances. Surely it must be the notorious privateer, the _Aimable Vertu_, owned by Jean Delarousse. Why it should have come to an insignificant place like Polkerran, when it might have gained rich prizes on the high seas, was a question that puzzled him greatly, unless Trevanion had made an alliance with the Frenchman.

The Squire's dispositions to meet the threatening attack were as good as could be devised, having regard to the short breathing-space allowed him, and to the nature of his situation. A large rambling building like the Towers could not be held for any length of time by a slender garrison of five. There were half-a-dozen points at which it could be assaulted simultaneously--the front door facing the village, the back door facing the sea, the stable-yard, the offices, the rooms and passages in the ruined portion. But the principal tower, flanking the porch, was in passable repair, and it was there that the Squire had determined to make a final stand. It contained two or three rooms approached by a stone staircase springing from near the front door. Mrs. Trevanion was sent by her husband to the topmost room. He posted himself, with Reuben and Penwarden, in the room over the porch, where the window-shutters had been loopholed, no doubt by some former owner of the Towers, though the Squire had never given the matter a thought. Dick he sent to the back of the house, instructing him to call Sam to his help if he saw fit.

"Neither for fire nor battle does the bell summon aid," he said bitterly. "Sam may as well save his energies."

His final instruction was that if the Frenchmen broke in, as seemed only too probable, they should all retreat to the tower, the entrance to which from the staircase was protected by a heavy, iron-studded oaken door. Believing that the invaders' object was loot and not slaughter, he scarcely anticipated personal damage, but supposed that the garrison would be allowed to remain in the tower unmolested while the rest of the house was sacked.

Delarousse, panting a little from his exertions, was as much alive to the risks and perils of his enterprise as the Squire could be. Success or failure hung upon minutes. But he had not earned his reputation as a daring and resourceful privateer undeservedly. His object was a very simple one. It was not bloodshed or rapine, but merely the seizure of the man who had grievously wronged him--John Trevanion, or, as he had known him in Roscoff, Robinson. Doubledick, to feed his private malice, had declared that John Trevanion lived in the Towers--the largest house upon the cliff. The Frenchman's little knowledge of the country had been gained solely by observation from the sea, and by the faint glimpses he had obtained on that dark and rainy night when he evaded the pursuit of the dragoons. He remembered that the house at whose door he had seen his enemy was nearer the top of the hill than the Towers; but he had no reason to doubt Doubledick's statement that the latter was now the residence of John Trevanion, and no one had told him that there were other Trevanions who had no dealings with John. It was therefore his whole-hearted belief that the Towers sheltered his bitterest foe which inspired his attack upon a man who had never injured him.

Utterly possessed by his purpose, he wasted no time in a vain summons to surrender. The bell was still clanging overhead. He had taken precautions to prevent interference from the village, where the absence of so many men on the scene of the expected run favoured his design. But he was not to know but that the summons might draw armed men from every corner of the neighbourhood beyond the village, and his blow must be struck at once. Accordingly he made straight for the porch, and finding, as he had expected, that the door was fast closed, he put his pistol to the lock, and with one shot shattered it to splinters. But the door was held also by bolts and crossbars resting in staples, and further secured by a sideboard placed against it by Dick and Reuben, so that the breaking of the lock availed him nothing. Brought thus to a check, he stood for a few moments within the porch among his men to consider his next step.

Meanwhile the Squire at the last moment had hurried to the top of the tower, with a double object: to observe the movements of the enemy more clearly than was possible through the loophole of a shuttered window, and to scan the surrounding country for any sign of assistance. No one was at present in sight. The air was heavy; the wind was off shore; and in all probability the sound of the bell had not even reached Nancarrow's farm, the nearest house except the Parsonage, much less Sir Bevil Portharvan's place, two miles farther away.

He had given instructions before leaving Penwarden that the French were not to be fired on until they opened hostilities. With his wife in the building, he was determined not to draw upon himself by any premature act the reprisals of so formidable a gang of desperadoes. Now that the Frenchmen were within the porch, they were immune from musket fire, and he began to wonder whether his prohibition was not a mistake. As soon, however, as he heard the report of Delarousse's pistol, with a rapidity that might have surprised those who had only known him of late years, the Squire seized a large block of loose stone that formed part of the half-ruined parapet, and toppled it over on to the roof of the porch below. It fell upon the tiles with a tremendous crash, scattering fragments in all directions, and bounded off on to the gravel path. Though none of the Frenchmen was struck by the stone itself, or even by the splinters of the tiles, it was sufficiently alarming to drive them from the porch, and they scurried instantly into the open. Two muskets flashed upon them from the loopholes above; one man was hit by a slug, and hopped away on one leg, assisted by his comrades. At the same moment the bell ceased to clang. Hearing the shots, Sam rushed down the stairs to take his part in the fray. The whole body of Frenchmen had now withdrawn out of range, and the Squire saw the little stout man, their leader, carefully scanning the building, with the object, no doubt, of finding a weak spot to attack. Only two minutes had elapsed since the enemy made the first move.

Alarmed at the sudden silence of the bell, from which he concluded that its clanging had achieved its object, Delarousse despatched one of his men to the high ground northward to report the approach of any armed force. Meanwhile he himself made a rapid circuit of the Towers, keeping, if not out of range, at least beyond easy-hitting distance. The back entrance seemed to him a vulnerable point, and the more promising, because it was not commanded by the tower, but only by the small window at which Dick was stationed. His ill-success at the front door made him resolute to go the shortest way to work at the back. He sent half-a-dozen men across the open stable-yard into the half-ruined stable to haul down one of the stout balks of wood that supported the roof, for use as a battering-ram. This movement was concealed from Dick by the angle of the building.

While his men were gone about this errand, Delarousse, impatient of the loss of time, took it into his head to summon the garrison to surrender. He trotted back to the front of the building, set his legs apart, and, lifting his eyes to the top of the tower, shouted a loud "Hola!" The Squire showed his head above the parapet, but did not reply.

"Hola!" repeated the Frenchman. "Trevanion! Render Trevanion; zen I go."

"A trick!" thought the Squire. "He thinks I'm worth a ransom!"

"Trevanion!" cried Delarousse again. "Ze ozers I not touch."

"I'll see what they say," shouted the Squire. "Anything to gain time," he thought.

Going to the door opening on the staircase he called for Dick.

"This fellow wants me, Dick," he said. "Goodness knows why! I suppose he imagines some rich imbecile will buy me back. If I surrender myself, he promises to spare the rest. Just run and see what your mother says: my old bones don't take kindly to those stairs."

Before Dick returned Delarousse lost patience and shouted for an answer. The Squire kept out of sight.

"Mother says you must not think of it for a moment," said Dick, running up again. "I knew she would."

"To tell the truth, so did I," replied his father. "But we have gained two or three minutes. Now to decline as civilly as possible--though he might at least Mounseer me, I think."

As soon as his head reappeared above the parapet, Delarousse shouted:

"Eh bien! You render Jean Trevanion?"

Father and son looked at each other. Dick's face expressed surprise mingled with relief; a strange smile sat upon the Squire's countenance.

"We give up nobody," he called down firmly. "Do your worst."

Dick thrilled with filial pride. It was a lesson in chivalry that he never forgot. A word from his father, he could not doubt, would have sent the Frenchmen in hot haste to the Dower House; but that word the Squire could not speak, even though John Trevanion was his worst enemy.

Delarousse spat out an oath, shook his fist at the impassive gentleman above him, and toddled off to the back, disappearing behind the outhouses.

"We'll see what the rascal is after now," said the Squire quickly, and followed Dick down the stairs.

For a minute or two the further proceedings of the assailants were hidden from view. Then the watchers saw, coming round the corner from the stables, four men bearing a stout twelve-foot post. Delarousse, immediately behind, urged them on with voluble utterance and vigorous play of hands.

"A battering-ram!" said the Squire. "I think, Dick, 'tis time to give them a warning."

Dick lifted his musket and fired through a loophole upon the men rushing forward. There was a cry from below; the effect of the shot could not be seen through the smoke; it was answered by a score of bullets pattering on the shutters. The Squire placed his musket to a second loophole. It was impossible to take aim; he fired at random; and another sharp cry seemed to tell that his slug had gone home. A babel of shouts arose. Peeping through the loopholes they saw that one of the four men bearing the post lay on the ground; he had let fall his end of the battering-ram. At the same moment there came the distant crackle of a fusillade. The sound goaded Delarousse to fury. He rushed forward to lift the dropped end of the post. But just as he was stooping, there was a loud shout from his left. He turned his head, without rising from the ground, and what he saw, in common with the spectators above, was three men half pushing, half dragging a fourth towards the leader of the party. Delarousse remained in his stooping posture, as though transfixed with amazement, while a man might count four. Then, springing to his feet, he rushed headlong towards the approaching group, drawing a pistol as he ran.

Up to that moment the fourth man had been passive in the hands of the three; but as soon as he caught sight of Delarousse leaping towards him, he jerked himself violently from the grasp of his captors, felled first one, then a second, with sledgehammer blows from right and left, and, slipping from the hands of the third, dashed with extraordinary speed along by the stable wall in the direction of the village. In ten seconds he was out of sight, and the whole band of Frenchmen, yelling fiercely, some discharging their pistols, turned their backs upon the Towers and doubled after the fugitive.

Dick darted from the room, and up the stairs to the roof, Sam hard upon his heels, the Squire following at a pace that belied his melancholy allusion to his old bones. Penwarden also, hearing Sam's jubilant shout at the raising of the siege, left his post at the front, and clambered up after the others, muttering "Dear life! what a mix-up the world is!" Leaning over the parapet, the four watched the strangest chase that ever was seen. The fugitive came to the wicket-gate leading out of the grounds, and took it with a flying leap, with the crowd of Frenchmen in full cry behind him. Some, like Delarousse himself, bore a burden of flesh and forty years; others were younger and slimmer, and these, impelled by the furious cries of their leader, leapt the gate in turn, the last of them catching his foot in the top and coming sprawling to the ground.

Their quarry, crossing a strip of land that still belonged to the Squire, came to the fence recently erected around the grounds of the Dower House. It was six feet high, a formidable obstacle to a man of his bulk and years. He clutched the top of it, heaved himself up, rolled across it sideways, and disappeared on the other side, wrenching the tail of his coat from the hands of the foremost Frenchman. In a trice the pursuer scrambled up after him, threw himself over, and also disappeared. Of the other members of his party, some scaled the obstacle with more or less facility; others, baulked by it, ran to right and left to find a path. Delarousse, whose stature and build forbade any athletic feat, yet disdained to leave the direct course, and called to two of his men to hoist him up. For an instant he sat swaying on the top of the fence; then he too dropped like a falling sack. Of all the thirty odd Frenchmen there were now only two or three to be seen.

But in a minute or two the hunt again came fully into view from the lofty tower. The fugitive sped along with amazing swiftness, making a straight line for the Dower House. Behind him, strung at intervals over two fields, poured the impetuous Frenchmen. One or two were close at his heels; the rest followed, each according to his ability.

"They've catched un!" cried Sam, his eyes dilated with excitement. "No, be-jowned if they have. Got away! Yoick! Yo-hoy! Now then, Frenchy! Ah, I thought ye'd do it, now you've smashed yerself. No, he's up again! Halloo!"

The side door of the Dower House stood half-open. The fugitive drew nearer and nearer to it; the pursuers seemed to make still more violent exertions to overtake him before he reached it. A few yards more! Ah! he was inside: the door was closing. But before it was quite shut, the first pursuer flung himself forward and thrust his musket within. To close the door was now impossible. For a few seconds the Frenchman appeared to be engaged in a fierce trial of strength with the persons inside. Two or three of his companions joined him; they threw themselves together upon the door; it yielded; and they dashed into the house.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND

John Trevanion in the Toils

With the aid of imagination's magic boots we skip now from the Towers to the village, and see what was happening there.

The _Isaac and Jacob_ lay alongside the jetty, in charge of half-a-dozen Frenchmen who lolled lazily about the deck. Nathan Pendry, who had steered the vessel into harbour, reclined, the picture of scowling discontent, against the bulwarks. Below, in the dark, reeking hold, trussed like fowls, lay Isaac Tonkin, Simon Mail, and two more of the most respected smugglers of Polkerran.

It appeared from Tonkin's story, told many a time in after years to the breathless company in the parlour of the Three Jolly Mariners, that on arriving in Roscoff to purchase his Christmas cargo, he had been sought out by Jean Delarousse, whose customer he had formerly been. The Frenchman did not complain of Tonkin's desertion, nor did he seek a renewal of their trade relations; his sole object was to persuade the Cornishman, by means of a heavy bribe, to deliver John Trevanion into his hands. Tonkin had his grievance against Trevanion. He felt sore at having had to play second fiddle to the younger man in recent smuggling transactions. But being an honest fellow, and loyal in grain, he rejected Delarousse's offer with indignant scorn, and refused to believe what he understood of the tale poured into his ears in broken English, of a long course of deceit and fraud by which, as Delarousse alleged, Trevanion had enriched himself at his partner's expense. The Frenchman had appeared to take his refusal in good part, and Tonkin, having freighted his lugger, put to sea on his return voyage, intending to run his cargo at the creek in the small hours of Friday morning as arranged.

The _Aimable Vertu_, Delarousse's privateering craft, lay in Roscoff harbour. Tonkin was only a mile or two at sea, when he noticed that the privateer was coming up astern. This circumstance at first gave him no concern; Delarousse was doubtless setting forth on one of his forays. But soon he began to suspect, from the course held by the larger vessel, that he was being chased, or at least dogged. The _Isaac and Jacob_ was a very swift vessel, and, laden though she was, her master hoped to be able to maintain his lead until nightfall, and then to escape under cover of the darkness. But he was not long in discovering that his lugger was no match in speed for the privateer. The short dusk of the December evening was closing down upon the sea when the _Aimable Vertu_ came within range. The lugger's armament consisted of one small carronade; the Frenchman had a broadside, which at a single discharge would have shattered the lesser craft to splinters. When, therefore, Tonkin was hailed and bidden to heave-to, he chose the sensible, indeed the only practicable, course, and obeyed. Delarousse and a boarding party took possession of the lugger; in spite of vigorous protests, Tonkin and his crew were bound and laid by the board, and, room having been made for them in the hold by the removal of several tubs, they were carried below. The two vessels then in company continued on their course for the English coast.

Favoured by the light mist that hung over the Channel during the night, the privateer escaped discovery by any English cruisers or revenue-cutters that might have been in the neighbourhood. When, however, she approached the rugged Cornish coast, the mist became a danger, and Delarousse had Tonkin fetched from below, and ordered him to pilot the vessels into Polkerran harbour. This the humiliated mariner flatly refused to do, persisting in his refusal in spite of the entreaties, curses, and menaces of his captor. He was carried back by ungentle hands to his noisome lair, and Pendry, a man of less backbone, proved to be more amenable to the Frenchman's commands. Under his skilful pilotage, the lugger safely made the harbour, the privateer standing some distance out at sea, to watch events.