Chapter IX: Part 9

In the evening, when Sandy Crawford returned from escorting his cousin, he was in high spirits; it was also evident that he had drunk a _glass_ or two more than was his usual, though not so much as to injure his understanding; and he now appeared most anxious to obtain a private conference with Jenny. Between her and the _herd laddie_ a sort of tacit understanding appeared now to exist, for he did not leave the house to follow his pastime, as was his wont; and, when his master bade him "gang and clean out his byre," the boy told him that he had done so already. He next desired him to "bring some water from the well for a drink, as he was thirsty." But Jenny, who answered for him, said that, "as the cow had been _tigging_ in the afternoon, he would be tired with chasing her;" and she took the pitcher and went to obey the order herself. The individual who had given it followed her out; but she was at the well, and had filled her pitcher, before he could come near enough to speak. When he had almost come up with her, he repeated her name, in that low, earnest tone, which people sometimes use when they wish to draw the attention of a listener; but she either did not hear, or did not _wish_ to hear him. He made certain of meeting her, however, as she returned; but here also he was deceived, for she went round by the other side of the _kailyard_, for the purpose, as it appeared, of taking with her a handful of sticks, with which to kindle up the fire next morning. On seeing this manoeuvre, he jumped over the dike, repeating her name as he had done before; but, on the present, as on the former occasion, she either heard him not, or pretended not to hear him; and, by hastening her pace, she had reached the house-door before he could intercept her. As a _dernier_ resource, the last-mentioned personage was now ordered to "gang and water the horse." And he rose to obey; but here again Jenny seemed to sympathise with him in his labours. "As the cow had _tiggit_ i' the afternoon," she said, "it was like aneugh the horse micht rin awa i' the e'enin; and, as the laddie, puir thing, had chased the cow till he was ready to fa' down, it couldna be expeckit that he would be able to chase the horse, and sae she would gang and help him."

If ever Jenny Jervis had been puzzled to account for the conduct of Sandy Crawford, he was now as much puzzled to account for the change which had come over her. He thought of the subject without being able to come to any conclusion, and then thought of it again to as little purpose as he had done before, till at last, wearied out with vain conjectures, he flung himself upon his bed in a state of mind not easy to be described; and when Jenny, who was in no great haste to return, came in, his heavy breathing told that he was already asleep. On stealing a glance into the apartment where he was, she saw that he was still lying with his clothes on, and that his sleep was of that profound sort which commonly lasts for the night.

Sandy Crawford had fallen asleep, little dreaming of either alarm or danger; but, about midnight, he was disturbed by an indistinct and inarticulate sound, which, though it conveyed no meaning to his ear, was loud enough to awake him. Slowly and heavily he opened his eyes; but it was not dark, as he expected it to be. On the contrary, a strange light glimmered around him, and, on turning his head to see whence it proceeded, he saw in the middle of the floor a spectre, which might have well appalled the heart of a hero. The ghost of Howdycraigs, to which his present visiter bore a striking resemblance, rushed back upon his memory, and he would have trembled, but that he did not recollect any bad consequences which followed that memorable event. Thus, in time, even ghosts might fail to terrify, were they to repeat their visits too often. In the present instance, it were difficult to say if Sandy was not strengthened for the sight by some faint hope that this might be a second marriage-making expedition of the same benevolent spirit, and that it might eventually help him to a _wife_, the getting of which thing he had begun to regard as no easy matter.

The ghost of Gairyburn, however, at first bade fair for being as famous in its day and generation as the ghost of Howdycraigs had been; and doubtless it had succeeded in a less hazardous enterprise. Like the other, its head was tied up in a white handkerchief, its body was carefully wrapped in the folds of an ample winding-sheet. On its feet it wore white stockings, but no shoes--the absence of which exhibited a finely-turned ankle to such advantage, that any male onlooker might have been excused for wishing it a substantial woman. But then its face and hands were as white as the finest flour or the whitest chalk could have made them--thus setting every earthly feeling, except fear, at defiance. In one hand it carried a candle, which burned as blue as any spiritual light ever burned, while with the other it managed its apparel, which was scrupulously clean--thus making it appear that it had been washed since it left its subterranean abode, from which circumstance it were reasonable to infer that it was either a female ghost, or had got a wife to do these things for it.

Though we have thus detained the reader, by describing it, _it_ detained not its auditor; for, as soon as he appeared to be fully awake--"Sandy Crawford," it said. But it was evidently an apprentice in the task it had undertaken, and knew but little of the manner in which a message should be delivered; for here its voice faltered, and its hands trembled in a most curious manner--thus making it evident that ghosts have feelings as well as mortals, and that they may sometimes be sent upon errands they dislike. The shaking of its hands caused the blue flame to fall from the candle, which immediately burned out with a clear and natural light; while that which had fallen hissed and sputtered on the floor. In attempting to remedy this mistake, by restoring the blue flame to its proper place, it seemed to burn its fingers--at least it drew back its hand with the appearance of pain, drawing in its breath, and starting up rather hurriedly at the same time. While performing the last mentioned of these operations, it unfortunately struck its head against the back of a chair, which chanced to be standing near, and ruffled its head-dress, from under which a most enchanting ringlet of fair hair escaped, and began to play about its white temples. One mistake followed another: in attempting to replace the hair, it passed a portion of the winding-sheet, in which it was muffled up, over its face; and when it was removed, its lips were no longer pale, but provokingly red--one cheek was of the same hue, and the deep blush of the other was now beginning to shine through its treacherous covering. As a further proof of its inexperience, it heaved a deep sigh, and was about to retire in apparent confusion, when Sandy, who had overcome his fear so far as to look at it steadily for the last minute or two, started up, with a heroism which has seldom been equalled, and, endeavouring to catch it in his arms, he exclaimed--

"Jenny, ye daft limmer, what set ye to playin thae mad pranks at this time o' nicht?"

In this emergency the ghost, confused as it was, contrived to make its escape; but not before it had thrown the winding-sheet which it wore around the very woman for whom he had mistaken it. By some "cantrip slight," it had no doubt brought her there to be ready in case of accidents, and it now left her to be caught in its stead. Jenny, not being a ghost, could not escape so easily; and, though she struggled a little when she found herself in the arms of a man, she did not appear extremely anxious to get away, while Sandy was so much pleased at having got her by herself at last, that he soon forgot the terrors of the ghost.

"Jenny," he continued, still mistaking her for his spiritual visiter, "if I hadna _liket_ ye better than every ither living cratur, since ye was a lassie, I declare I would never kenned ye dressed up as ye are in a' that trumpery. But now that I've gotten ye, I maun keep ye, for I've been wishing to tell ye something this lang time; but ye aye ran frae me as if I had been a _ghost_, though ye see I've catched you when ye was tryin to act ane."

The candle which the ghost had left was now placed in a candlestick; and as Jenny appeared perfectly willing to listen to whatever he might have to say, he proceeded to give her such information as served in a great measure to clear up the whole of the mystery.

Though he had been long attached to her, and had felt a growing inclination to call her his wife, his mother's death had prevented him from speaking of the subject for a time. During this interval, Betsy Braikens had come oftener than once, soliciting assistance for her brother; upon these occasions, he had always given her what ready-money he could command, and, at last, to save him from bankruptcy, he had become security for a hundred pounds, which was considerably more than his whole effects were worth. No sooner had he done this than he began to doubt the possibility of his cousin ever being able to redeem his debts; in which case his own prospects were ruined. The idea that it would be criminal to involve an unsuspecting female in misery and poverty made him resolve to say nothing of his affections, till he should see what was to be the issue; and for a time he had kept his resolution. But he had determined to make a candid confession of his circumstances, and run any risk which she might be willing to share, when he was interrupted by Betsy Braikens, who had come expressly for the purpose of telling him that her brother had redeemed the whole of his debts, and was now in prosperous circumstances. In a few days thereafter Jenny went to reside with her mother for a short time; and one evening, as Sandy bade her good-night, he gave her a clap on the shoulder, and called her his "spectre bride." On the following week they went to Perth; and Jenny Jervis and Betsy Braikens were married on the same day--the former to Sandy Crawford, and the latter to Robert Walker, who had kept up a regular correspondence with her ever since the night on which he lost his way among the snow.

THE SMUGGLER.

The golden days of the smuggler are gone by; his hiding-places are empty; and, like Othello, he finds his "occupation gone." Our neighbours on the other side of the herring-pond now bring us _dry bones_, according to the law, instead of _spirits_, contrary to the law. Cutters, preventive-boats, and border-rangers, have destroyed the _trade_--it is becoming as a tale that was told. From Spittal to Blyth--yea, from the Firth of Forth to the Tyne--brandy is no longer to be purchased for a trifle; the kilderkin of Holland gin is no longer placed at the door in the dead of night; nor is a yard of tobacco to be purchased for a penny. The smuggler's phrase, that the "_cow has calved_,"[D] is becoming obsolete. Now, smuggling is almost confined to crossing "the river," here and there, the "ideal line by fancy drawn;" to Scotland saying unto England, "Will you taste?" and to England replying, "Cheerfully, sister." There was a time, however, when the clincher-built lugger plied her trade as boldly, and almost as regularly, as the regular coaster; and that period is within the memory of those who are yet young. It was an evil and a dangerous trade; and it gave a character to the villagers on the sea-coasts which, even unto this day, is not wholly effaced. But in the character of the smuggler there was much that was interesting--there were many bold and redeeming points. I have known many; but I prefer, at present, giving a few passages from the history of one who lived before my time, and who was noted in his day as an extraordinary character.

Harry Teasdale was a native of Embleton, near Bamborough. He was the sole owner of a herring-boat and a fishing-cobble; he was also the proprietor of the house in which he lived, and was reputed to be worth money--nor was it any secret that he had obtained his property by other means than those of the haddock hand-line and the herring-net. Harry, at the period we take up his history, was between forty and fifty years of age. He was a tall thin man, with long sandy hair falling over his shoulders, and the colour of his countenance was nearly as rosy as the brandy in which he dealt. But, if there was the secrecy of midnight in his calling, his heart and his hand were open as mid-day. It is too true that money always begets the outward show of respect for him who possesses it, though in conduct he may be a tyrant, and in capacity a fool; but Harry Teasdale was respected, not because he was reputed to be rich, but because of the boldness and warmness of his heart, the readiness of his hand, and the clearness of his head. He was the king of fishermen, and the prince of smugglers, from Holy Island to Hartlepool. Nevertheless, there was nothing unusual in his appearance. Harry looked like his occupation. His dress (save where disguise was necessary) consisted in a rudely-glazed sou'-wester, the flap of which came over his shoulders, half covering his long sandy hair. Around him was a coarse and open _monkey_ or _pea_-jacket, with a Guernsey frock beneath, and a sort of canvas kilt descending below the knee; and his feet were cased in a pair of sea-boots. When not dressing his hand-lines or sorting his nets, he might generally be seen upon the beach, with a long telescope under his arm. As Harry was possessed of more of this world's substance than his brother fishermen, so also was there a character of greater comfort and neatness about his house. It consisted of three rooms; but it also bore the distinguishing marks of a smuggler's habitation. At the door hung the hand-line, the hooks, and the creel; and in a corner of Harry's sleeping-room a "_keg_" was occasionally visible; while over the chimneypiece hung a cutlass and four horse-pistols; and in a cupboard there were more packages of powder and pistol-bullets than it became a man of peace to have in his possession. But the third room, which he called his daughter's, contained emblems of peace and happiness. Around the walls were specimens of curious needlework, the basket of fruit and of flowers, and the landscape--the "_sampler_," setting forth the genealogy of the family for three generations, and the age of her whose fair hands wrought it. Around the window, also, carefully trained, were varieties of the geranium, and the rose, the bigonia, and cressula, the aloe, and the ice-plant, with others of strange leaf and lovely covering. This Harry called his daughter's room--and he was proud of her: she was his sole thought, his only boast. His weatherbeaten countenance always glowed, and there was something like a tear in his eyes, when he spoke of "my Fanny." She had little in common with the daughter of a fisherman; for his neighbours said that her mother had made her unfit for anything, and that Harry was worse than her mother had been. But that mother was no more, and she had left their only child to her widowed husband's care; and, rough as he appeared, never was there a more tender or a more anxious parent--never had there been a more affectionate husband. But I may here briefly notice the wife of Harry Teasdale, and his first acquaintance with her.

When Harry was a youth of one-and-twenty, and as he and others of his comrades were one day preparing their nets upon the sea-banks for the north herring-fishing, a bitter hurricane came suddenly away, and they observed that the mast of a Scotch smack, which was then near the Ferne Isles, was carried overboard. The sea was breaking over her, and the vessel was unmanageable; but the wind being from the north-east, she was driving towards the shore. Harry and his friends ran to get their boats in readiness, to render assistance if possible. The smack struck the ground between Embleton and North Sunderland, and being driven side-on by the force of the billows, which were dashing over her, formed a sort of break-water, which rendered it less dangerous for a boat to put off to the assistance of the passengers and crew, who were seen clinging in despair to the flapping ropes and sides of the vessel. Harry's cobble was launched along the beach to where the vessel was stranded, and he and six others attempted to reach her. After many ineffectual efforts, and much danger, they gained her side, and a rope was thrown on board. Amongst the smack's passengers was a Scottish gentleman, with his family, and their governess. She was a beautiful creature, apparently not exceeding nineteen; and as she stood upon the deck, with one hand clinging to a rope, and in the other clasping a child to her side, her countenance alone, of all on board, did not betoken terror. In the midst of the storm, and through the raging of the sea, Harry was struck with her appearance. She was one of the last to leave the vessel; and when she had handed the child into the arms of a fisherman, and was herself in the act of stepping into the boat, it lurched, the vessel rocked, a sea broke over it, she missed her footing, and was carried away upon the wave. Assistance appeared impossible. The spectators on the shore and the people in the boat uttered a scream. Harry dropped the helm, he sprung from the boat, he buffeted the boiling surge, and, after a hopeless struggle, he clutched the hand of the sinking girl. He bore her to the boat; they were lifted into it.

"Keep the helm, Ned," said he, addressing one of his comrades who had taken his place; "I must look after this poor girl--one of the seamen will take your oar." And she lay insensible, with her head upon his bosom, and his arm around her waist.

Consciousness returned before they reached the shore, and Harry had her conveyed to his mother's house. It is difficult for a sensitive girl of nineteen to look with indifference upon a man who has saved her life, and who risked his in doing so; and Eleanor Macdonald (for such was the name of the young governess) did not look with indifference upon Harry Teasdale. I might tell you how the shipwrecked party remained for five days at Embleton, and how, during that period, love rose in the heart of the young fisherman, and gratitude warmed into affection in the breast of Eleanor--how he discovered that she was an orphan, with no friend, save the education which her parents had conferred on her, and how he loved her the more, when he heard that she was friendless and alone in the world--how the tear was on his hardy cheek when they parted--how more than once he went many miles to visit her--and how Eleanor Macdonald, forsaking the refinements of the society of which she was a dependant, became the wife of the Northumbrian fisherman. But it is not of Harry's younger days that I am now about to write. Throughout sixteen happy years they lived together; and though, when the tempests blew and the storms raged, while his skiff was on the waves, she often shed tears for his sake, yet, though her education was superior to his, his conduct and conversation never raised a blush to her cheeks. Harry was also proud of his wife, and he showed his pride, by spending every moment he could command at her side, by listening to her words, and gazing on her face with delight. But she died, leaving him an only daughter as the remembrancer of their loves; and to that daughter she had imparted all that she herself knew.

Besides his calling as a fisherman, and his adventures as a smuggler on sea, Harry also made frequent inland excursions. These were generally performed by night, across the wild muir, and by the most unfrequented paths. A strong black horse, remarkable for its swiftness of foot, was the constant companion of his midnight journeys. A canvas bag, fastened at both ends, and resembling a wallet, was invariably placed across the back of the animal, and at each end of the bag was a keg of brandy or Hollands, while the rider sat over these; and behind him was a large and rude portmanteau, containing packages of tea and tobacco. In his hand he carried a strong riding-whip, and in the breast-pocket of his greatcoat two horse-pistols, always loaded and ready for extremities. These journeys frequently required several days, or rather nights, for their performance; for he carried his contraband goods to towns fifty miles distant, and on both sides of the Border. The darker the night was, and the more tempestuous, the more welcome it was to Harry. He saw none of the beauties in the moon on which poets dwell with admiration. Its light may have charms for the lover, but it has none for the smuggler. For twenty years he had carried on this mode of traffic with uninterrupted success. He had been frequently pursued; but his good steed, aided by his knowledge of localities, had ever carried him beyond the reach of danger; and his _stow-holes_ had been so secretly and so cunningly designed, that no one but himself was able to discover them, and informations against him always fell to the ground.

Emboldened by long success, he had ceased to be a mere purchaser of contraband goods upon the sea, and the story became current that he had bought a share of a lugger, in conjunction with an Englishman then resident at Cuxhaven. His brother-fishermen were not all men of honour; for you will find black sheep in every society, and amongst all ranks of life. Some of them had looked with an envious eye upon Harry's run of good fortune, and they bore it with impatience; but now, when he fairly, boldly, and proudly stepped out of their walk, and seemed to rise head and shoulders above them, it was more than they could stand. It was the lugger's first trip, and they, having managed to obtain intelligence of the day on which she was to sail with a rich cargo, gave information of the fact to the commander of a revenue-cutter then cruising upon the coast.

I have mentioned that Harry was in the habit of wandering along the coast with a telescope under his arm. From the period of his wife's death, he had not gone regularly to sea, but let others have a share of his boats for a stipulated portion of the fish they caught. Now, it was about daybreak, on a morning in the middle of September, that he was on the beach as I have described him, and perceiving the figure of the cutter on the water, he raised his glass to his eye, to examine it more minutely. He expected the lugger on the following night, and the cutter was an object of interest to Harry. As day began to brighten, he knelt down behind a sand-bank, in order that he might take his observations, without the chance of being discovered; and while he yet knelt, he perceived a boat pulled from the side of the cutter towards the shore. At the first glance, he descried it to be an Embleton cobble, and before it proceeded far, he discovered to whom it belonged. He knew that the owner was his enemy, though he had not the courage openly to acknowledge it, and in a moment the nature of his errand to the cutter flashed through Harry's brain.

"I see it! I see it all!" said the smuggler, dashing the telescope back into its case; "the low, the skulking coward, to go blab upon a neighbour! But Ise have the weather-gauge o' both o' them, or my name's not Harry Teasdale."

So saying, he hastened home to his house--he examined his cutlass, his pistols, the bullets, and the powder. "All's right," said the smuggler, and he entered the room where his daughter slept. He laid his rough hand gently upon hers.

"Fanny, love," said he, "thou knowest that I expect the lugger to-night, and I don't think I shall be at home, and I mayn't be all to-morrow; but you won't fret, like a good girl, I know you won't. Keep all right, love, till I be back; and say nothing."

"Dear father," returned Fanny, who was now a lovely girl of eighteen, "I tremble for this life which we lead--as my poor mother said, it adds the punishment of the law to the dangers of the sea."

"Oh, don't mention thy mother, dearest!" said the smuggler, "or thou wilt make a child of thy father, when he should be thinking of other things. Ah, Fanny! when I lost thy mother, I lost everything that gave delight to my heart. Since then, the fairest fields are to me no better than a bare muir, and I have only thee, my love--only my Fanny, to comfort me. So, thou wilt not cry now--thou wilt not distress thy father, wilt thou? No, no! I know thou wilt not. I shall be back to thee to-morrow, love."

More passed between the smuggler and his daughter--words of remonstrance, of tenderness, and assurance; and when he had left her, he again went to the beach, to where his boat had just landed from the night's fishing. None of the other boats had yet arrived. As he approached, the crew said they "saw by his face there was something unpleasant in the wind," and others added--

"Something's vexed Skipper Harry this morning, and that's a shame, for a better soul never lived."

"Well, mates," said he, as he approached them, "have you seen a shark cruising off the coast this morning?"

"No," was the reply.

"But I have," said Harry, "though she is making off to keep out of sight now; and, more than that, I have seen a cut-throat lubber that I would not set my foot upon--I mean the old Beelzebub imp, with the white and yellow stripe on his yawl, pull from her side. And what was he doing there? Was it not telling them to look out for the lugger?"

Some of the boat's crew uttered sudden and bitter imprecations.

"Let us go and sink the old rascal before he reach the shore," said one.

"With all my heart," cried another; for they were all interested in the landing of the lugger, and in the excitement of the moment they wist not what they said.

"Softly, softly, my lads," returned Harry; "we must think now what we can do for the cargo and ourselves, and not of him."

"Right, master," replied another; "that is what I am thinking."

"Now, look ye," continued Harry, "I believe we shall have a squall before night, and a pretty sharp one, too; but we mustn't mind that when our fortunes are at stake. Hang all black-hearted knaves that would peach on a neighbour, say I; but it is done in our case, and we must only do our best to make the rascal's story stick in his throat, or be the same as if it had; and I think it may be done yet. I know, but the peachers can't, that the lugger is to deliver a few score kegs at Blyth before she run down here. We must off and meet her, and give warning."

"Ay, ay, Master Teasdale, thou'rt right; but, now that the thing has got wind, the sharks will keep a hawk's eye on us, and how we are to do it, I can't see."

"Why, because thou'rt blind," said Harry.

"No, hang it, and if I be, master," replied the other; "I can see as far as most o' folks, as ye can testify; and I dow see plain enough, that if we put to sea now, we shall hae the cutter after us; and that would be what I call only leading the shark to where the salmon lay."

"Man, I wonder to hear thee," said Harry; "folk wad say thou hadst nae mair gumption than a born fool. Do ye think I wad be such an ass as to send out spies in the face o' the enemy? Hae I had a run o' gud luck for twenty years, and yet ye think me nae better general than that comes to? I said, nae doubt, that we should gang to sea to meet the lugger, though there will be a squall, and a heavy one, too, before night, as sure as I'm telling ye; but I didna say that we should dow sae under the bows o' the cutter, in our awn boat, or out o' Embleton."

"Right, right, master," said another, "no more you did. Ned isn't half awake."

The name of the fisherman alluded to was Ned Thomson.

"Well, Ned, my lad," continued Harry, "I tell thee what must be done: I shall go saddle my old nag, get thou a horse from thy wife's father--he has two, and can spare one--and let us jog on as fast as we can for Blyth; but we mustn't keep by the coast, lest the king's folk get their eyes upon us. So away, get ready, lad, set out as quick as thee can--few are astir yet. I won't wait on thee, and thou won't wait on me; but whoever comes first to Felton Brig shall just place two bits o' stones about the middle--on the parapet I think they ca' it; but it is the dyke on each side o' the brig I mean, ye knaw. Put them on the left-hand side in gaun alang, down the water; or if they're there when ye come up, ye'll ken that I'm afore ye. So get ready, lad--quick as ever ye can. Tell the awd man naething about what ye want wi' the horse--the fewer that knaw onything about thir things the better. And ye, lads, will be upon the look-out; and, if we can get the lugger run in here, have a'thing in readiness."

"No fear o' that, master," said they.

"Well, sir," said Ned, "I'll be ready in a trap-stick, but I knaw the awd chap will kick up a sang about lendin his horse."

"Tell him I'll pay for it, if ye break its legs," said Harry.

The crew of the boat laughed, and some of them said--"Nobody will doubt that, master--you are able enough to do it."

It must be observed that, since Harry had ceased to go regularly to sea, and when he was really considered to be a rich man, the crew of his boat began to call him _master_, notwithstanding his sou'-wester and canvas kilt. And now that it was known to them, and currently rumoured in Embleton, that he was part proprietor of a lugger, many of the villagers began to call Fanny Miss Teasdale; and it must be said, that in her dress and conversation she much nearer approximated to one that might be styled _Miss_, than to a fisherman's daughter. But, when the character and education of her mother are taken into account, this will not be wondered at.

It would be uninteresting to the reader to describe the journey of Harry and Ned Thomson to Blyth; before they arrived at Felton, Harry had overtaken Ned, and they rode on together.

On arriving at Blyth, they stopped at the door of an individual who was to receive forty kilderkins of Hollands from the lugger, and a quantity of tobacco. It is well known to be the first duty of an equestrian traveller to look after his horse, and to see that it is fed; but, in this instance, Harry forgot the established rule--the horses were given in charge of a girl to take them to a stable, to see them fed, or otherwise, and Harry hastened into the house, and breathlessly inquired of its owner--"I hope to heaven, sir, ye have heard nothing of the Swallow?"

[The lugger was called the "Swallow," from the carpenter in Cuxhaven, who built her, having warranted that she "would _fly_ through the water."]

"Why, nothing," replied Harry's brother smuggler; "but we shall be on the look-out for her to-night."

"So far well," said Harry; "but I hope you have no fear of any king's lobsters being upon the coast, or rats ashore?"

"I don't think we have anything to fear from the cutters," said the other; "but I won't answer for the spies on shore; there are folk wi' us here, as weel as wi' ye, that canna see their neighbours thrive and haud their tongue; and I think some o' them hae been gaun owre aften about wi' the spy-glass this day or two."

"Then," said Harry, "the lugger doesna break bulk here, nor at Embleton outher--that's flat. Get ye a boat ready, neighbour, and we maun off and meet her, or ye may drink sma' yill to your venture and mine."

"It is growing too stormy for a boat to venture out," answered the other.

"Smash, man!" rejoined Harry; "wad you sit here on your hunkers, while your capital is in danger o' being robbed frae ye as simply as ye would snuff out a candle, and a' to escape a night's doukin! Get up, man--get a boat--we maun to sea--we maun meet the lugger, or you and I are done men--clean ruined a'thegither. I hae risked the better part o' my bit Fanny's fortune upon this venture, and, Heaven! I'll suffer death ten thousand-fold afore I see her brought to poverty; sae get a boat--get it--and if ye daurna gang out, and if nane o' your folk daur gang, Ned and me will gang our tow sels."

"Surely ye wad be mad, Harry, to attempt such a thing in an open boat to-night," said the Blyth merchant.

"Mad or no mad," answered Harry, "I hae said it, and I am determined. There is nae danger yet wi' a man that knaws how to manage a boat. If ye gang pullin through thick and thin, through main strength and for bare life, as many of the folk upon our coast dee, then there is danger--but there is nae use for the like o' that. It isna enough to manage an oar; you must knaw how to humour the sea, and to manage a wave. Dinna think I've been at sea mair than thirty years without knawing something about the matter. But I tell you what it is, friend--ye knaw what the Bible says--'The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;' now, the way to face breakers, or a storm at sea, is not to pull through desperation, as if your life depended on the pulling; but when you see a wave coming, ye must backwater and backwater, and not pull again until ye see an opportunity of gauin forward. It is the trusting to mere pulling, sir, that makes our life-boats useless. The rowers in a life-boat should study the sea as well as their oars. They should consider that they save life by watching the wave that breaks over the vessel, as well as by straining every nerve to reach her. Now, this is a stormy night, nae doubt, but we maun just consider ourselves gaun off to the lugger in the situation o' folk gaun off in a life-boat. We maun work cannily and warily, and I'll tak the management o' the boat mysel."

"If ye dow that, master," said Ned Thomson, "then I gang wi' ye to a dead certainty."

"Well, Harry," replied the merchant, "if it maun be sae, it just maun be sae; but I think it a rash and a dangerous undertaking. I wad sooner risk a' that I have on board."

"Why, man, I really wonder to hear ye," said Harry; "folk wad say that ye had been swaddled in lambs' wool a' your life, and nursed on your mother's knee. Get a boat, and let us off to the lugger, and nae mair about it."

His orders were obeyed; and, about an hour after sunset, himself, with Ned Thomson, the merchant, and four others, put off to sea. They had indeed embarked upon a perilous voyage--before they were a mile from the shore, the wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the waves chased each other in circles, like monsters at play. Still Harry guided the boat with unerring skill. He ordered them to draw back from the bursting wave--they rose over it--he rendered it subservient to his purpose. Within two hours he descried the lights of the lugger. He knew them, for he had given directions for their use, and similar lights were hoisted from the cobble which he steered.

"All's well!" said Harry, and in his momentary joy he forgot the tempestuous sea in which they laboured. They reached the lugger--they gained the deck.

"Put back, friend--put back," was the first salutation of Harry to the skipper; "the camp is blown, and there are sharks along shore."

"The devil!" replied the captain, who was an Englishman; "and what shall we do?"

"Back, back," answered Harry; "that is all in the meantime."

But the storm now raged with more fierceness--it was impossible for the boat to return to the shore, and Harry and his comrades were compelled to put to sea with the lugger. Even she became in danger, and it required the exertions of all hands to manage her.

The storm continued until near daybreak, and the vessel had plied many miles from the shore; but as day began to dawn, and the storm abated, an enemy that they feared more appeared within a quarter-of-a-mile from them, in the shape of a cutter-brig. A gun was fired from the latter, as a signal for the lugger to lie to. Consternation seized the crew, and they hurried to and fro upon the deck in confusion.

"Clear the decks!" cried the skipper; "they shan't get all without paying for it. Look to the guns, my hearties."

"Avast! Master Skipper," said Harry; "though my property be in danger, I see no cause why I should put my neck in danger too. It will be time enough to fight when we canna better dow; and if we can keep them in play a' day there will be sma' danger in wur gi'en them the slip at night."

"As you like, Mr Teasdale," said the skipper; "all's one to me. Helm about, my lad," added he, addressing the steersman, and away went the lugger, as an arrow, scudding before the wind.

The cutter made all sail, and gave chase, firing shot after shot. She was considered one of the fastest vessels in the service; and though, on the part of Harry and his friends, every nerve was strained, every sail hoisted, and every manoeuvre used, they could not keep the lugger out of harm's way. Every half-hour he looked at his watch, and wished for night, and his friend, the skipper, followed his example. There was a hot chase for several hours; and, though tubs of brandy were thrown overboard by the dozen, still the whizzing bullets from the cutter passed over the heads of the smugglers. It ought to be mentioned, also, that the rigging of the lugger had early sustained damage, and her speed was checked. About sunset a shot injured her rudder, and she became for a time, as Harry described her, "as helpless as a child." The cutter instantly bore down upon her.

"Now for it, my lads!" cried the skipper; "there is nothing for it but fighting now--I suppose that is what you mean, Master Teasdale?"

Harry nodded his head, and quietly drew his pistols from the breast-pocket of his greatcoat; and then added--

"Now, lads, this is a bad job, but we must try to make the best on't, and, as we hae gone thus far" (and he discharged a pistol at the cutter as he spoke), "ye knaw it is o' nae use to think o' yielding--it is better to be shot than hanged."

In a few minutes the firing of the cutter was returned by the lugger, from two large guns and a number of small-arms. Harry, in the midst of the smoke and flame of the action, and the havoc of the bullets, was as cool and collected as if smoking his pipe upon the beach at Embleton.

"See to get the helm repaired, lad, as fast as ye can," said he to the carpenter, while in the act of reloading his pistols. "Let us fight away, but mind ye your awn wark."

Harry's was the philosophy of courage, mingled with the calculations of worldly wisdom.

The firing had been kept up on both sides for the space of half-an-hour, and the decks of both were stained with the blood of the wounded, when a party from the brig, headed by her first mate, succeeded in boarding the lugger. Harry seized a cutlass which lay unsheathed by the side of the companion, and was the first who rushed forward to repel them.

"Out o' my ship, ye thieves!" cried he, while, with his long arm, he brandished the deadly weapon, and for a moment forgot his habitual discretion.

Others of the crew instantly sprang to the assistance of Harry; and, after a short but desperate encounter, the invaders were driven from the deck, leaving their chief mate, insensible from wounds, behind them.

The rudder being repaired so as to render her manageable, the lugger kept up a sort of retreating fight until night set in, when, as Harry said, "she gave the cutter the slip like a knotless thread."

But now a disagreeable question arose amongst them, and that was, what they should do with the wounded officer, who had been left as a prize in their hands--though a prize that they would much rather have been without. Some wished that he might die of his wounds, and so they would get rid of him; for they were puzzled how to dispose of him in such a way as not to lead to their detection, and place their lives in jeopardy. Harry was on his knees by the side of the officer, washing his wounds with Riga balsam, of which they had a store on board, and binding them up, when one desperate fellow cut short the perplexity and discussion of the crew, by proposing to fling their _prize_ overboard.

On hearing the brutal proposal, Harry sprang to his feet, and hurling out his long bony arm, he exclaimed, "Ye savage!" and, dashing his fist in the face of the ruffian, felled him to the deck.

The man (if we may call one who could entertain so inhuman an idea by the name of man) rose, bleeding, growling, and muttering threats of revenge.

"Ye'll blab, will ye?" said Harry, eyeing him fiercely; "threaten to dow it again, and there's the portion that's waiting for yur neck!" and, as he spoke, he pointed with his finger to the cross-tree of the lugger, and added, "and ye knaw that the same reward awaits ye if ye set yur weel-faur'd face ashore! Out o' my sight, ye 'scape-the-gallows!"

For three days and nights, after her encounter with the brig, the lugger kept out to sea; and on the fourth night, which was thick, dark, and starless, Harry resolved to risk all; and, desiring the skipper to stand for the shore, all but run her aground on Embleton beach. No light was hoisted, no signal given. Harry held up his finger, and every soul in the lugger was mute as death. A boat was lowered in silence, and four of the crew being placed under the command of Ned Thomson, pulled ashore. The boat flew quickly, but the oars seemed only to kiss the water, and no sound audible at the distance of five yards proceeded from their stroke.

"Now, pull back quietly, mates," said Ned, "and I'll be aboard wi' some o' wur awn folks in a twinkling."

It was between one and two in the morning, and there was no outward sign amongst the fishermen of Embleton that they were on the alert for the arrival of a smuggler. The party who gave information to the cutter having missed Harry for a few days, justly imagined that he had obtained notice of what they had done; and also believed that he had ordered the cargo to be delivered on some other part of the coast, and they therefore were off their guard. Ned, therefore, proceeded to the village; and, at the houses of certain friends, merely gave three distinct and peculiar taps with his fingers upon their shutterless windows, from none of which, if I may use the expression, proceeded even the _shadow_ of light; but no sooner was the last tap given upon each, than it was responded to by a low cough from within. No words passed; and at one window only was Ned detained for a space exceeding ten seconds, and that was at the house of his master, Harry Teasdale. Fanny had slept but little since her father left; when she sought rest for an hour, it was during the day, and she now sat anxiously watching every sound. On hearing the understood signal, she sprang to the door. "Edward!" she whispered, eagerly, "is it you?--where is my father?--what has detained him?"

"Don't be asking questions now, Miss Fanny--sure it is very foolish," replied Ned, in the same tone; "Master will be here by and by; but ye knaw we have bonny wark to dow afore daylight yet. Gud-nicht, hinny."

So saying, Ned stole softly along the village; and, within half-an-hour, half-a-dozen boats were alongside the lugger; and, an hour before daybreak, every tub and every bale on board was safely landed and stowed away.

Yet, after she was a clean ship, there was one awkward business that still remained to be settled, and that was how they were to dispose of the wounded officer of the cutter-brig. A consultation was held--many opinions were given.

"At ony rate we must act like Christians," said Harry.

Some proposed that he should be taken over to Holland and landed there; but this the skipper positively refused to do, swearing that the sooner he could get rid of such a customer the better.

"Why, I canna tell," said Ned Thomson; "but what dow ye say, if we just take him ashore, and lay him at the door o' the awd rascal that gied information on us?"

"Capital!" cried two or three of the conclave; "that's just the ticket, Ned!"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Harry, "it's nae such thing. Man, Ned, I wonder that sic a clever chap as ye aye talks like a fool. Why, ye might as weel go and ask them to tak you and me off to Morpeth before dinner-time, as to lay him at their door this morning."

"Well, Master Teasdale," said the skipper, who was becoming impatient, "what would you have us to do with him?"

"Why, I see there's naething for it," answered Harry, "but I maun tak the burden o' him upon my awn shouthers. Get the boat ready." So saying, and while it was yet dark, he entered the cabin where the wounded officer lay, but who was now conscious of his situation.

"I say, my canny lad," said Harry, approaching his bedside, and addressing him, "ye maun allow me to tie a bit handkerchur owre yur een for a quarter-of-an-hour or sae.--Ye needna be feared, for there's naething shall happen ye--but only, in looking after yur gud, I maunna lose sight o' my awn. You shall be ta'en ashore as gently as we can."

The wounded man was too feeble to offer any resistance, and Harry, binding up his eyes, wrapped the clothes on the bed around him, and carried him in his arms upon deck. In the same manner he placed him in the boat, supporting him with his arm, and, on reaching the shore, he bore him on his shoulders to his house.

"Now, sir," said he, as he set him down from his shoulders on an arm-chair, "ye needna be under the smallest apprehension, for every attention shall be paid ye here; and, as soon as ye are better, ye shall be at liberty to return, safe and sound, to your friends, your ship, or wherever ye like." Harry then turned to his daughter, and continued--"Now, my bird, come awa in by wi' me, and I will let ye knaw what ye have to dow."

Fanny wondered at the unusual burden which her father had brought upon his shoulders into the house; and at his request she anxiously accompanied him into her own apartment. When they had entered, and he had shut the door behind them, he took her hand affectionately, and, addressing her in a sort of whisper, said--

"Now, Fanny, love, ye maun be very cautious--as I knaw ye will be--and mind what I am telling ye to dow." He then made her acquainted with the rank of their inmate, and the manner in which he had fallen into their hands, and added--"Now, darling, ye see we maun be very circumspect, and keep his being here a secret frae everybody: he maun remain ignorant o' his awn situation, nowther knawing where he is, nor in whose hands he is; for if it were found out, it wad be as much as your father's life is worth. Now he maun stop in this room, as it looks into the garden, and he can see naething frae it, nor will onybody be able to see him. Ye maun sleep wi' the lass in the kitchen, and yur '_sampler_,' and every book, or onything that has a name on't, maun be taken out o' the room. It winna dow for onybody but you and me ever to see him, or to wait on him; and, when we dow, he maunna be allowed to see either yur face or mine; but I will put my awd mask on, that I used to wear at night sometimes when there was onything particular to dow, and I thought there wad be danger in the way; and," continued he, as the doating parent rose in his bosom, "it wadna be _chancy_ for him to see my Fanny's face at ony rate; and when ye dow see him, ye maun have your features so concealed, that, if he met you again, he wadna knaw ye. Now, hinny, ye'll attend to a' that I've said--for ye remember your father's life depends on it--and we maun be as kind to the lad as we can, and try to bring him about as soon as possible, to get clear on him."

Fanny promised to obey her father's injunctions; but fears for his safety, and the danger in which he was placed, banished every other thought. The books, the "_sampler_," everything that could lead the stranger to a knowledge of the name of his keepers, or of the place where he was, was taken out of the room.

Harry, muffling up his face, returned to the apartment where the wounded man was, and, supporting him on his arm, he led him to that which he was to occupy. He then took the bandage from his eyes, and, placing him on the bed, again desired him to keep himself easy, and wished him "good-morning," for day was now beginning to dawn.