Fortunately for Lucy and her father, they looked to a higher source of comfort than the young skipper of the "Nancy." They knew that it was no uncommon thing for men, women, and children to be saved, on the coasts of Britain, "as if by miracle," and they felt themselves to be in the hands of Him "whom the winds and the sea obey."

Guy held on to the weather-shrouds close to Bax. Speaking so as not to be heard by the others, he said:

"Is there much chance of a boat putting off to us?"

"Not much," replied Bax. "A lugger could scarcely live in such a sea. Certainly it could not come near us in this shoal water. I doubt even if the lifeboat could come here."

For two hours after this they remained silently in their exposed position, their limbs stiffening with cold, drenched continually with spray, and occasionally overwhelmed by the crest of a monstrous wave. Sometimes a rocket from the lightship shot athwart the dark sky, and at all times her lights gleamed like faint stars far away to windward. When the sea broke around them in whiter sheets than usual, they could see the head of the broken foremast drawn against it like a black line to leeward. Everything else above and below, was thick darkness.

One of the seamen, who had been for some time in bad health, was the first to give way. Without uttering a word he loosened his hold of the shrouds and fell backwards. Guy saw him falling, and, making a desperate grasp at him, caught him by the breast of his shirt, but the garment gave way, and next moment he was down in the boiling flood. Guy, with an impulse that was natural to him, was about to leap off to his rescue, but Bluenose caught him by the collar and held him forcibly back. In another moment the man was gone for ever.

So silently did all this pass, and so furious was the tumult of the storm, that Lucy and her father were not aware of what had occurred.

Our brave little friend Tommy Bogey was the next who failed. Whether it was that witnessing the seaman's death had too powerful an effect on his spirit, or that the cold acted more severely on his young muscles than on those of his companions, it is impossible to say, but, soon after the loss of the man, the boy felt his strength giving way. Turning with instinctive trust to his friend in this extremity, he shouted:—

"Bax, give us a hand!"

Before his friend could do so, his grasp relaxed and he fell back with a piercing shriek that rose above even the howling wind.

Almost an instant after he struck the water, Bax dived head-foremost into it, and came up with him in his arms. Both man and boy went to leeward instantly. The former had counted on this. The fate of the seaman who had just perished had led him to reflect that a vigorous effort might have enabled him to gain the stump of the fore-mast, which still stood, as we have said, to leeward of the main-mast. Acting on this thought, he had plunged without hesitation when the moment for action came, although it did come unexpectedly.

A faint shout soon told his horror-stricken companions that he had gained the point of safety.

"It won't do to leave 'em there," cried Bluenose, starting up, and clambering as far out on the cross-trees as he dared venture; "even if the mast holds on, them seas would soon wash away the stoutest man living."

"Oh! save my preserver!" cried Lucy, who, regardless of the storm, had sprung wildly up, and now stood clinging to a single rope, while her garments were almost torn from her limbs by the fury of the hurricane.

"Can nothing be done to save them?" cried the missionary as he kindly but firmly dragged his daughter back to her former position.

"Nothin', sir," said one of the sailors. "There ain't a cask, nor nothin' to tie a rope to an' heave to wind'ard—an' it's as like as not it wouldn't fetch 'em if there wos. They'd never see a rope if it wos veered to 'em—moreover, it wouldn't float. Hallo! Master Guy, wot are ye up to?"

Guy had hauled in the slack of one of the numerous ropes attached to the main-mast that were floating away to leeward, and was fastening the end of it round his waist. Bluenose and the missionary turned quickly on hearing the seaman's shout, but they were too late to prevent the bold youth from carrying out his design, even if they had wished to do so.

Taking a vigorous spring to windward, Guy was in the sea in a moment. In another instant he was lost to view in darkness. Bluenose seized the end of the rope, and awaited the result in breathless suspense. Presently a shout so faint that it seemed miles away, was heard to leeward, and the rope was jerked violently.

"Now lads, all hands a-hoy!" cried Bluenose in wild excitement. "Just give 'em time to haul in the slack, and tie it round 'em, and then pull with a will."

The incident and the energy of the Captain seemed to act like a spell on the men who had up to this time clung to the shrouds in a state of half-stupor. They clustered round Bluenose, and each gaining the best footing possible in the circumstances, seized hold of the rope.

Again the rope was shaken violently, and a heavy strain was felt on it. The men pulled it in with difficulty, hand over hand, and in a short time Bax, Guy, and Tommy were once more safe in their former position on the cross-trees.

Terrible indeed their danger, when such a position could be spoken of as one of safety!

Another hour passed away. To those who were out on that fatal night the minutes seemed hours—the hours days.

Still no succour came to them. The storm instead of abating seemed to be on the increase. Had it not been for the peculiar form of the shoal on which they lay, the old vessel must have been dashed to pieces in the first hour of that terrible gale.

Gradually Bax ceased to raise his encouraging voice—indeed the whistling wind would have rendered it inaudible—and the party on the cross-trees clung to their frail spar almost in despair. As the gale increased so did the danger of their position. No chance of deliverance seemed left to them; no prospect of escape from their dreadful fate; the only ray of hope that came to them fitfully through the driving storm, was the faint gleaming of the lightship that guards the Goodwin Sands.



CHAPTER SIX.

HEROES OF THE KENTISH COAST—THE LIFEBOAT—THE RESCUE.

Deal beach is peculiar in more respects than one. There are a variety of contradictory appearances about it which somewhat puzzle a visitor, especially if he be accustomed to sea-coast towns and villages in other parts of the country.

For one thing, all the boats seem hopelessly high and dry on the beach, without the chance, and apparently without any intention, of ever being got off again. Then there is, at certain seasons of the year, nothing whatever doing. Great hard-fisted fellows, with nautical garments and bronzed faces, are seen lounging about with their hands in their pockets, and with a heavy slowness in their gait, which seems to imply that they are elephantine creatures, fit only to be looked at and wondered at as monuments of strength and laziness.

If the day happens to be fine and calm when the stranger visits the beach, he will probably be impressed with the idea that here is an accumulation of splendid sea-going materiel, which has somehow got hopelessly stranded and become useless.

Of course, in the height of summer, there will be found bustle enough among the visitants to distract attention from the fact to which I allude; but in spring, before these migratory individuals arrive, there is marvellously little doing on Deal beach in fine weather. The pilots and boatmen lounge about, apparently amusing themselves with pipes and telescopes; they appear to have no object in life but to kill time; they seem a set of idle hulking fellows;—nevertheless, I should say, speaking roughly, that at least the half of these men are heroes!

The sturdy oak, in fine weather, bends only its topmost branches to the light wind, and its leaves and twigs alone are troubled by the summer breeze; but when the gale lays low the trees of the forest and whirls the leaves about like ocean spray, then the oak is stirred to wild action; tosses its gnarled limbs in the air, and moves the very earth on which it stands. So the heroes on Deal beach are sluggish and quiescent while the sun shines and the butterflies are abroad; but let the storm burst upon the sea; let the waves hiss and thunder on that steep pebbly shore; let the breakers gleam on the horizon just over the fatal Goodwin Sands, or let the night descend in horrid blackness, and shroud beach and breakers alike from mortal view, then the man of Deal bestirs his powerful frame, girds up his active loins, and claps on his sou'-wester; launches his huge boat that seemed before so hopelessly high and dry; hauls off through the raging breakers, and speeds forth on his errand of mercy over the black and stormy sea with as much hearty satisfaction as if he were hasting to his bridal, instead of, as is too often the case, to his doom.

Near the north end of Deal beach, not very far from the ruins of Sandown Castle, there stood an upturned boat, which served its owner as a hut or shelter whence he could sit and scan the sea. This hut or hovel was a roomy and snug enough place even in rough weather, and although intended chiefly as a place of out-look, it nevertheless had sundry conveniences which made it little short of a veritable habitation. Among these were a small stove and a swinging oil lamp which, when lighted, filled the interior with a ruddy glow that quite warmed one to look at. A low door at one end of the hovel faced the sea, and there was a small square hole or window beside it, through which the end of a telescope generally protruded, for the owners of the hovel spent most of their idle time in taking observations of the sea. There was a bench on either side of the hut which was lumbered with a confused mass of spars, sails, sou'westers, oil-skin coats and trousers; buoys, sea-chests, rudders, tar-barrels, and telescopes.

This hovel belonged jointly to old Jeph and Captain Bluenose. Bax had shared it with them before he was appointed to the command of the "Nancy." In the olden time the owners of these nautical huts dwelt in them, hence the name of "hoveller" which is used at the present day. But with the progress of civilisation the hovellers have come to reside in cottages, and only regard the hovels as their places of business. Hovellers, as a class, do little else than go off to ships in distress and to wrecks; in which dangerous occupation they are successful in annually saving much property and many human lives. Their livelihood from salvage, as may be supposed, is very precarious. Sometimes they are "flush of cash," at other times reduced to a low enough ebb. In such circumstances it almost invariably follows that men are improvident.

Not many years ago the hovellers were notorious smugglers. Many a bold deed and wild reckless venture was made on Deal beach in days of old by these fellows, in their efforts to supply the country with French lace, and brandy, and tobacco, at a low price! Most of the old houses in Deal are full of mysterious cellars, and invisible places of concealment in walls, and beams, and chimneys; showing the extent to which contraband trade was carried on in the days of our fathers. Rumour says that there is a considerable amount of business done in that way even in our own days; but everybody knows what a story-teller Rumour is.

The only thing that gives any colour to the report is the fact that there is still a pretty strong coast-guard force in that region; and one may observe that whenever a boat comes to the beach a stout fellow in the costume of a man-of-war's man, goes up to it and pries into all its holes and corners, pulling about the ballast-bags and examining the same in a cool matter-of-course manner that must be extremely irritating, one would imagine, to the owner of the boat!

At night, too, if one chances to saunter along Deal beach by moonlight, he will be sure to meet, ere long, with a portly personage of enormous breadth, enveloped in many and heavy garments, with a brace of pistols sticking out of his breast pockets, and a short cutlass by his side. But whatever these sights and symptoms may imply, there can be no question that smuggling now is not, by any means, what it was thirty or forty years ago.

On the night of the storm, described in the last chapter, the only individual in old Jeph's hovel was old Jeph himself. He was seated at the inner end of it on a low chest near the stove, the light of which shone brightly on his thin old face and long white locks, and threw a gigantic black shadow on the wall behind. The old man was busily engaged in forming a model boat out of a piece of wood with a clasp knife. He muttered to himself as he went on with his work, occasionally pausing to glance towards the door, the upper half of which was open and revealed the dark storm raging without.

On one of these occasions old Jeph's eyes encountered those of a man gazing in upon him.

"Is that you, Long Orrick? Come in; it's a cold night to stand out i' the gale."

He said this heartily, and then resumed his work, as if he had forgotten the presence of the other in an instant. It is not improbable that he had, for Jeph was very old. He could not have been far short of ninety years of age.

Long Orrick entered the hovel, and sat down on a bench opposite the old man. He was a very tall, raw-boned, ill-favoured fellow, of great muscular strength, and with a most forbidding countenance. He was clad in oiled, rough-weather garments.

"You seem busy, old man," said he abruptly.

"Ay, I had need be busy," said old Jeph without looking up; "there are many lives to save; many lives bein' lost this very night, and no means of savin' 'em; leastwise not sufficient."

"Humph! ye're eternally at that bit o' humbug. It's bam, old man, all bam; bosh and gammon," said Orrick. "It'll never come to no good, I tell ye."

"Who knows?" replied the old man meekly, but going on with his work not the less diligently because of these remarks.

"Jeph," said Orrick, leaning forward until his sharp features were within a few inches of his companion's face, "Jeph, will ye tell me where the 'hide' is in yer old house?"

"No, Long Orrick, I won't," replied the old man with an amount of energy of which he seemed, a few seconds before, quite incapable.

The reply did not seem to please Long Orrick, neither did the steady gaze with which it was accompanied.

"You won't?" said Orrick between his set teeth.

"No," replied the old man, dropping his eyes on the little boat and resuming his work.

"Why not," continued the other after a pause, "you don't require the hide, why won't you lend it to a chum as is hard up?"

"Because I won't encourage smugglin'," said Jeph. "You've smuggled enough in yer young days yerself, you old villain; you might help a friend a bit; it won't be you as does it."

"It's because I have smuggled w'en I was young that I won't do it now that I'm old, nor help anyone else to," retorted Jeph; "besides, you're no friend o' mine."

"What if I turn out to be an enemy?" cried Orrick, fiercely; "see here," said he, drawing out a long knife, and holding it up so that the light of the stove glittered on its keen blade, "what if I give you a taste of this, old man?"

"You won't," said Jeph, calmly.

"No! why not?"

"Because you're a coward," replied Jeph, with a quiet chuckle; "you know that you wouldn't like to be hanged, ha! ha! and you know that Bax would be down on you if you touched my old carcase."

Long Orrick uttered a savage oath, and said, "I'm brave enough, anyhow, to let you taste the cold steel to-night—or desperate enough if ye prefer it."

He seized Jeph by the throat as he spoke, and pressed the blade of the knife against his breast. The old man did not shrink, neither did he struggle. He knew that he was in the hands of one whose type is but too common in this world, a bully and a coward, and, knowing this, felt that he was safe.

It seemed, however, as if the very elements scorned the man who could thus raise his hand against unprotected age, for the wind shrieked louder than usual in its fury, and a blinding flash of lightning, accompanied by a deep crash of thunder, added to the horror of the scene.

Just then an exclamation was heard at the door of the hovel. Long Orrick released his hold hastily, and turning round, observed a round ruddy visage scowling at him, and the glittering barrel of a pistol levelled at his head.

"Ha! ha!" he laughed hoarsely, endeavouring to pass it off as a jest, "so you've caught us jokin', Coleman,—actin' a bit—and took it for arnest, eh?"

"Well, if it is actin', it's oncommon ugly actin', I tell ye; a deal too nat'ral for my tastes, so I'd advise ye to drop it here, an' carry yer talents to a theaytre, where you'll be paid according to your desarts, Long Orrick."

"Ah! the night air don't agree with ye, Coleman, so I'll bid ye good-bye," said the other, rising and quitting the hut.

"Wot's he bin' a doin' of, old man?" inquired Coleman, who was a huge, ruddy, good-humoured coast-guardsman, with the aspect of a lion and the heart of a lamb; whose garments were of the roughest and largest kind, and who was, to adopt a time-honoured phrase, armed to the teeth,—that is to say, provided with a brace of pistols, a cutlass, and a port-fire, which last could, on being struck against a rock, burst into flame, and illuminate the region for many yards around him.

"Oh, he's bin' actin'," replied the old man, with a quiet chuckle, as he resumed his work on the boat; "he's bin' actin', that's all."

At this moment the boom of a gun fired by the Gull lightship broke on the ears of the men of Deal, and a moment later the bright flash of a rocket was seen. It was the well-known signal that there was a ship in distress on the sands.

Instantly the hardy boatmen were at work. One of their largest boats was launched through the wild surf, as if by magic, and its stout crew were straining at the oars as if their lives depended on the result.

The boat happened to be the one belonging to Captain Bluenose and his comrades, and the first man who leaped into her, as she was driven down into the sea, was Long Orrick; for, bad man though he was, he was not without his redeeming points, and, coward though he was before the face of man, he was brave enough in facing the dangers of the sea.

It was a fearful struggle in which the Deal lugger engaged that night. The sea threatened to bury her altogether as she pushed off through the breakers, and some of the men seemed to think it would be too much for them. A man named Davis took the helm; he had saved many a life on that coast in his day.

The intense darkness of the night, coupled with the fury of the winds and waves, were such that no men, save those who were used to such scenes, would have believed it possible that any boat could live in so wild a storm. In addition to this the cold was excessive, and the spray broke over them so continuously that the pump had to be kept going in order to prevent their getting filled altogether.

It was a long weary pull to the Gull light-ship. When they reached it they hailed those on board, and asked where away the wreck was.

"Right down to leeward, on the Sand-head," was the reply.

Away went the lugger before the gale with just a corner of the foresail hoisted. It was not long before they came in sight of the breakers on the Sands. Here they were obliged to put out the oars and exercise the utmost caution, lest they should incur the fate from which they had come out to rescue others. Davis knew the shoals and channels well, and dropped down as far as he dared, but no wreck of any kind was to be seen.

"D'ye see anything?" shouted Davis to Long Orrick, who was in the bow.

Orrick's reply was inaudible, for the shrieking of the gale, and the roar of breakers drowned his voice.

At that moment a huge wave broke at a considerable distance ahead of them, and against its white crest something like the mast of a vessel was discerned for an instant.

"God help them!" muttered Davis to himself; "if they're as far as that on the sands there's no chance for them, unless, indeed, the Broadstairs or Ramsgate lifeboat finds 'em out. Let go the anchors!" he shouted; "look sharp, lads!"

The anchor was let go, and the lugger was veered down by its cable as far in the direction of the wreck as possible, but the boat was so large and drew so much water that they could not even get within sight of the wreck. In these circumstances the men nestled as they best might under the lee of the boat's sides, and prepared to ride out the storm, or at least to remain at anchor there until day-light should enable them to act with more precision and safety.

Fortunately for all parties concerned, other eyes and ears had been on the watch that night. At Broadstairs, which lies a little to the north of Deal, the crew of the lifeboat had been on the look-out, and no sooner did they see the rocket and hear the gun, than they launched their boat and put off to the rescue.

It is generally found that there are more men to man the lifeboats on many parts of our coasts than are required, and this is specially the case on the Kentish coast. Hence, when the signal-rocket goes up on a stormy night, many eager eyes are on the watch, and there is a rush to the boat in order to secure a place. On this occasion there were one or two men who, rather than wait to pull on their oilskin coats and pantaloons, had run down just as they happened to be clothed at the time, and in a very unfit state to face the inclemency of a night which might involve hours of unremitting and exhaustive labour. These jumped into their places, however, and their less fortunate comrades, who arrived too late, supplied them with garments. In five minutes the lifeboat was flying under sail towards the Goodwin Sands.

Seldom had the Broadstairs boat faced so wild a storm as that which blew on this occasion. The sea broke over her in cataracts. Again and again she was more than half-filled with water, but this was speedily got rid of, and in the course of an hour she was beside the lugger.

"Where away?" shouted the coxswain of the lifeboat as they passed.

"Right ahead, not two cables' lengths," roared Davis.

The sails of the lifeboat had already been lowered, and the oars were out in a second. Gradually and slowly they dropped down towards the breakers, and soon caught sight of the mast of the "Nancy," still towering up in the midst of the angry waters.

The danger to the lifeboat was now very great, for there was such a wild chopping sea on the sands that it ran great risk of being upset. The boat was one of the old-fashioned stamp, which, although incapable of being sunk, was not secure against being overturned, and it did not possess that power of righting itself which characterises the lifeboats of the present day.

In a few minutes they were near enough to see the mast of the "Nancy" dimly in the dark. The coxswain immediately gave the order to let go the anchor and veer down towards the wreck. Just as he did so, a terrific sea came rolling towards them like a black mountain.

"Look out, men!" he shouted.

Every man let go his oar, and, throwing himself on the thwart, embraced it with all his might. The wave went right over them, sweeping the boat from stem to stern; but as it had met the sea stern-on it was not overturned. It was completely filled however, and some time was necessarily lost in freeing it of water. The oars, being attached to the sides of the boat by lanyards, were not carried away.

In a few minutes they had veered down under the lee of the wreck.

The crew and passengers of the "Nancy" were still clinging to the cross-trees, benumbed and almost unable to speak or move when the lifeboat approached. With the exception of Bax and Bluenose, they were all so thoroughly exhausted as to have become comparatively indifferent to, and therefore ignorant of, all that was going on around them. All their energies were required to enable them simply to retain their position on the rigging. At first the sight of the rockets from the light-ship, and her lanterns gleaming in the far distance, had aroused feelings of hope, but as hour after hour passed away the most of the unhappy people fell into a sort of stupor or indifference, and the lights were no longer regarded with hopeful looks.

When the lugger came towards them and anchored outside the Sands, it was so dark that none but sharp eyes could make her out through the blinding spray. Bax and Bluenose descried her, but both of them were so well aware of the impossibility of a large boat venturing among the shoals and breakers that they tacitly resolved not to acquaint their comrades with its presence, lest they should raise false hopes, which, when disappointed, might plunge them into still deeper despair.

Very different, however, were the feelings with which they beheld the approach of the lifeboat, which the practised eye of Bax discerned long before she came alongside.

"The lifeboat!" said Bax sharply in the ear of Bluenose, who was close beside him. "Look! am I right?"

"So 'tis, I do believe," cried the captain, staring intently in the direction indicated by his friend's outstretched hand.

"Lifeboat ahoy!" shouted Bax, in a voice that rang loud and strong above the whistling winds, like the blast of a brazen trumpet.

"Wreck ahoy!" cried the coxswain of the boat, and the cry, borne towards them by the gale, fell upon the ears of those on the mast like the voice of Hope shouting "Victory!" over the demon Despair.

"Cheer up, Lucy! Ho! comrades, look alive, here comes the lifeboat!"

Bax accompanied these words with active preparations for heaving a rope and otherwise facilitating their anticipated escape. Guy was the first to respond to the cry. Having placed himself in a very exposed position in order that his person might shelter Lucy Burton, he had been benumbed more thoroughly than his comrades, but his blood was young, and it only wanted the call to action to restore him to the full use of his powers and faculties. Not so with the missionary. He had become almost insensible, and, but for the effort to protect his child which animated and sustained him, must certainly have fallen into the sea. Some of the men, too, were utterly helpless. Their stiffened hands, indeed, maintained a death-like gripe of the ropes, but otherwise they were quite incapable of helping themselves.

As for Lucy, she had been so well cared for and protected from the bitter fury of the wind, that, although much exhausted, terrified, and shaken, she was neither so be-numbed nor so helpless as some of her less fortunate companions.

Presently the lifeboat was close on the lee side of the mast, and a cheer burst from her crew when they saw the number of survivors on the cross-trees.

"Look out!" cried the man in the bow of the boat, as he swung a heavily-loaded stick round his head, and flung it over the mast. The light line attached to this was caught by Bax, and by means of it a stout rope was drawn from the boat to the mast of the "Nancy" and made fast.

And now came the most dangerous and difficult part of the service. Besides the danger of the mast being broken by the violence of the increasing storm and hurled upon the lifeboat, an event which would have insured its destruction, there was the risk of the boat herself being stove against the mast by the lashing waves which spun her on their white crests or engulfed her in their black hollows, as if she had been a cork. The greatest care was therefore requisite in approaching the wreck, and when this was accomplished there still remained the difficulty of getting the exhausted crew into the boat.

Had they all been young and strong like Bax or Guy, they could have slid down the rope at the risk of nothing worse than a few bruises; but with several of them this method of escape was impossible;—with Lucy and her father it was, in any circumstances, out of the question. A block and tackle was therefore quickly rigged up by Bluenose, by which they were lowered.

Poor Lucy had not the courage to make the attempt until one or two of the seamen had preceded her, it seemed so appalling to be swung off the mast into the black raging chaos beneath her feet, where the lifeboat, shrouded partially in darkness and covered with driving spray, appeared to her more like a phantom than a reality.

"Come, Miss Lucy," said Bax, tenderly, "I'll fasten the rope round myself and be swung down with you in my arms."

Lucy would not hear of this. "No," said she, firmly, "I will conquer my silly fears; here, put the rope round me."

At that moment a wave tossed the boat so high that it came up almost to the level of the mast-head, and an involuntary cry rose from some of the men, who thought she must infallibly be dashed against it and upset. One of the men on the mast, seeing the boat at his very feet, made a sudden spring towards it, but it plunged into the hollow of the passing wave, and, missing his grasp, he fell with a wild shriek into the water. He was swept away instantly. This so unnerved Lucy that she almost fainted in her father's arms.

"Come," cried Bax, putting the end of the rope round his waist, "we must not trifle thus."

"The rope won't bear ye both," said Bluenose. "You're too heavy, lad."

"True," interrupted Guy, "let me do it. I'm light, and strong enough."

Bax, at once admitting the force of the argument, undid the rope without hesitation, and fastened it quickly round Guy's waist. The latter seized Lucy in his arms, and in a moment they were both swinging in the air over the wild sea.

Every incident in this thrilling scene now passed with the speed almost of thought. The boat rose under them. Bax at once let the rope run. Down they went, but a swirl in the treacherous waves swept the boat two or three fathoms to leeward. Instantly they were both in the sea, but Guy did not loosen his hold or lose his presence of mind for a moment. Bax hauled on the rope and raised him half out of the water for a few seconds; the boat made a wild sheer towards them, and the missionary uttered a cry of agony as he fancied his child was about to be run down, perhaps killed, before his eyes; but the cry was transformed into a shout of joy and thanksgiving when he saw one of the lifeboat's crew seize Guy by the hair, and another catch his daughter by a portion of her dress. They were quickly pulled into the boat.

To save the remainder was now a matter of less difficulty. The missionary was the only one left on the mast who was not able more or less to take care of himself; but the joy consequent on seeing his daughter saved infused new vigour into his frame. He and the others were finally got off—Bax being the last to quit the wreck—and then the lifeboat pulled away from the dangerous shoals and made for the land.

Finding it impossible to reach Broadstairs, owing to the direction of the gale, they pulled in an oblique direction, and, after narrowly escaping an upset more than once, gained Deal beach not far from Sandown Castle, where the boat was run ashore.

Here there was a large concourse of boatmen and others awaiting them. The men in the lugger,—seeing the lifeboat come up and feeling that the storm was almost too much for them, and that their services were not now required,—had returned to the shore and spread the news.

The instant the lifeboat touched the shingle, a huge block and tackle were hooked on to her, the capstan connected with these was already manned, and the boat was run up high and dry with the crew in her.

The cheers and congratulations that followed were checked however, when the discovery was made that Guy Foster was lying in a state of insensibility!

When the boat sheered towards him and Lucy, as already described, he had seen the danger and warded it away from the girl by turning his own person towards it. No one knew that he had been hurt. Indeed, he himself had scarcely felt the blow, but a deep cut had been made in his head, which bled so copiously that he had lain down and gradually became insensible.

His head was bandaged by Bluenose in a rough and ready fashion; a couple of oars with a sail rolled round them were quickly procured, and on this he was borne off the beach, followed by his friends and a crowd of sympathisers.

"Where to?" inquired one of the men who supported the litter.

"To Sandhill Cottage," said Bax; "it's his mother's house, and about as near as any other place. Step out, lads!"

Before they were off the beach the dull report of a cannon-shot was heard. It came from the light-ship, and immediately after a rocket flew up, indicating by the direction in which it sloped that another vessel was in distress on the shoals.

All thought of those who had just been rescued was forgotten by the crew of the lifeboat. Those of them who had not been too much exhausted by previous toil and exposure leaped into their seats. The places of those who were unable to go off again were instantly filled by eager boatmen. Dozens of stout arms thrust her—crew and all seated as they were—down into the lashing surf. There was a short sharp struggle between the sturdy men and the heavy rollers, which threatened not only to swamp the boat but to hurl her back, stem over stern, upon the shingle, and in a few minutes more she was forcing her way through wind, and waves, and spray, on this her second errand of mercy that night to the Goodwin Sands.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE WIDOW'S COTTAGE.

"About a thousand ships are wrecked, and nearly a thousand lives are lost on the shores of this country every year," was still the burden of Mrs Foster's dreams when she was aroused by a loud knocking at the door of her cottage, and the sound of confused voices and trampling of many feet outside.

"Ho! goodness gracious me, ma'am," cried worthy Mrs Laker, bursting into her mistress's apartment—"if here ain't a thousand robbers as is come for to pillidge the ouse an' trample down the garding. It's from the hattic winder, I see 'em with the moon, if w'ant the lightenin' a glanshin' on their 'orrid faces as is never shaved nor washed, and it's bin my dream from the years of unsuspectious hinfancy, as is come for to pass now in the days of my womanhood, with dead bodies carryin' too, w'ich is wuss. Ho! dear, wot shall I do!"

"Go and put on your clothes while I open the door," said Amy Russell, entering hastily at the moment in a state of comparative dishabille, with a shawl thrown round her. "Dear mamma, don't be alarmed; it must be a mistake. They cannot mean us any harm, I am certain. May I go and open the door?"

"Open the door!" shrieked Mrs Laker in the tone of one almost paralysed by astonishment; "open the door to a thousand robbers with swords, and guns, and blood, and dead bodies!"

As Mrs Laker was robed in her night-gown, and stood erect, with her arms extended and her hair dishevelled, she looked dreadfully tragic and awful, while these fearful words flowed from her pale lips.

"Hush, Laker," said Mrs Foster, hastily throwing on her garments with trembling hands, while she made a strong effort to restrain her agitation, "go, dear Amy, and ask what they want; but don't open the door."

She followed Amy to the landing outside, leaving Mrs Laker, glaring in sceptical amazement, in the middle of the room. Presently, Amy was heard downstairs speaking through the key-hole. A man's voice replied; there was a suppressed scream and immediately the outer door was unlocked, the chain removed, and the bolts withdrawn. This was followed by the heavy tramp of men in the passage below, and a wild shriek from Mrs Foster.

Mrs Laker, still standing with uplifted arms in the middle of the bedroom, and livid with terror, glared round in search of a place of refuge, and gasped horribly. Her eye fell on the bed from which her mistress had issued. With a spring that would have done her credit in the days of her girlhood, she plunged into it, head first, and rolled herself tight up in the clothes, where she lay, quaking and listening intently.

"It's only a cut on the head, and a little blood, ma'am, don't be alarmed," said the gruff voice of Bluenose, as the footsteps ascended the stair, and approached the bedroom.

"Cut" and "blood" were the only words in this speech which made any impression on poor Mrs Laker, who trembled so violently that the curtains around her shook again.

"Lay him in my bed," said Mrs Foster, in an agitated voice.

"W'y, the bed's all alive—O!" exclaimed Bluenose, in surprise.

"O Laker! what are you doing there? get out, quick."

"Mercy, good men, mercy; I—"

The sentence was cut short by a wild yell, as her eye fell on the pale and bloody face of Guy. She tumbled, clothes and all, over the side of the bed in a dead faint, and rolled, in a confused white heap, to the very feet of her astounded brother, Captain Bluenose.

"Well, if this don't beat Trafalgar all to sticks!" exclaimed the Captain.

"Come, attend to Guy," said Bax, in a deep, commanding voice.

He lifted up Mrs Laker and the bed-clothes as if she had been a large washing, and carried her down to her own apartment,—guided by Tommy Bogey, who knew the way,—where he placed her in bed, and left her to recover as she best might.

Bax had taken the precaution to despatch a messenger for a doctor before they left the beach, so that Guy's hurt was soon examined, dressed, and pronounced to be a mere trifle which rest would heal in a few days. Indeed, Guy recovered consciousness soon after being brought into the cottage, and told his mother with his own lips that he was "quite well." This, and the doctor's assurances, so relieved the good lady, that she at once transferred much of her anxious care to the others who had been wrecked along with her son.

Lucy was placed in the hands of the sympathetic Amy Russell, and conducted by her to her own room, where she obtained dry clothing. As for the others, they dried themselves by the kitchen fire, which was stirred up vigorously by the now restored and repentant Laker, who also busied herself in spreading a repast for the shipwrecked men. Mrs Foster did the same for a select few, whom she meant to entertain in the parlour.

"Who is that handsome sailor," said Amy, as she assisted Lucy Burton to dress, "the one, I mean, who came up with Guy?"

"There were four who came up with Guy," replied Lucy, smiling.

"True," said Amy, blushing (she blushed easily), "but I mean the very tall, dark man, with the black curling hair."

"Ah! you mean the man who carried good Mrs Laker downstairs in a bundle," said Lucy, with a merry laugh.

"Yes," cried Amy, echoing the laugh, "who is he?"

"Why, you ought to know him," said Lucy, with a look of surprise, "he resides near you; at least he was one of the boatmen of your own coast, before he became captain of the 'Nancy'. His name is Bax."

"Bax!" echoed Amy. "Is he Bax? Oh, I know Bax well by name. He is a friend of Guy, and a celebrated man on this coast. He is sometimes called the Stormy Petrel, because he is always sure to be found on the beach in the wildest gales; sometimes he is called the Life Preserver, on account of the many lives he has saved. Strange," said Amy musingly, "that I should have pictured him to myself so like what he turns out to be. He is my beau-ideal of a hero!"

"He is a hero," said Lucy, with such sudden enthusiasm that her new friend looked up in her face in surprise. "You do not know," continued Lucy, in some confusion, "that he saved my life not much more than twenty-four hours ago."

Amy expressed deep interest in this matter, and begged to hear all about it. Lucy, nothing loath, related the event circumstantially; and Amy, gazing earnestly in her beautiful animated countenance, sighed and regarded her with an expression of sad interest,—also with feelings which she herself could not understand.

"But how comes it that you have never seen Bax till to-night?" inquired Lucy, when she had finished her narrative.

"Because I have not been very long here," said Amy, "and Bax had ceased to dwell regularly on the coast about the time I was saved, and came to live with Mrs Foster."

"Saved!—Mrs Foster!" exclaimed Lucy.

"Yes, Mrs Foster is not my mother."

"And Guy is not your brother?" said Lucy, with a glance so quick and earnest, that Amy felt a little confused.

"No, he is not," said she, "but he saved my life at the end of Ramsgate pier, and ever since then I have lived with his mother."

It was now Lucy's turn to express deep interest. She begged to have the circumstances related to her, and Amy, nothing loath, told her how Guy had plunged into the sea when no one else observed her danger, and caught her just as she was sinking.

As Amy told her story with animation, and spoke of Guy, with sparkling eyes, and a rich glow on her fair cheek, Lucy gazed at her with grave interest, and felt sensations in her breast, which were quite new to her, and altogether incomprehensible.

Three times had Mrs Laker been sent to knock at Amy's door, and inform the young ladies that supper awaited them, before they completed their toilet, and descended to the drawing-room.

Laker called it supper, because she could not conscientiously give the name of breakfast to a meal extemporised about four o'clock in the morning!

Mr Burton and Bluenose were already seated at the table. Bax stood near the fireplace bending down to Mrs Foster, who was looking up in his face, shaking his hand, and thanking him, with tears in her eyes, for having saved her son's life! Bax was much perplexed by this view of the matter, taken and obstinately held to by the widow.

"Really, ma'am," said he, with a deprecatory smile, "you are mistaken, I assure you. I did not save Guy's life—on the contrary, he saved mine this night; for if he had not jumped well to wind'ard with the line and caught hold of the old foremast, where Tommy and I were perched like two birds—"

"Ha," interrupted Bluenose, bluntly, "you'd both's bin in Davy Jones' locker by this time; for I seed the old stick myself, not three minits arter, go by the board like the stem of a baccy pipe."

It was just as Bluenose concluded this speech that the young ladies entered the room.

"Come," cried Bax, turning quickly towards Lucy, who advanced first, "here is another witness to the fact. Do try, Miss Burton, to convince Mrs Foster that I did not—"

Bax paused, for his glance fell at that moment on Amy Russell, whom he had not observed in the confusion of their first appearance in the cottage.

"My adopted daughter," said Mrs Foster, taking Amy by the hand and leading her forward; "shake hands with Mr Bax, darling, who has saved Guy's life to-night."

Bax held Amy's white little hand for one moment as tenderly as if he were afraid his own iron muscles might injure it.

"I see," said he, with a smile, "that I must submit to be misrepresented until Guy himself comes to defend me."

Amy glanced at Lucy and blushed. Lucy glanced at Amy and looked confused; then the whole party laughed, and Bluenose said that for his part he didn't see no savin' o' life one way or other, 'xcepting as regarded the lifeboat, which he wos bound for to say had saved the whole lot of 'em, and that was all about it; whereupon they all sat down to supper, and the missionary asked a blessing; thanking God for their recent deliverance, and praying in a few earnest words for continued favour.

Bluenose was a man of peculiar and decided character. He did not at all relish his position in the drawing-room when he thought of his sister Mrs Laker supping in the kitchen. Being an impulsive man, he seized his cap, and said abruptly to his hostess:

"I'll tell 'ee wot it is, marm, I aint used to this 'ere sort o' thing. If you'll excudge me, marm, I'll go an' 'ave my snack with Bess i' the kitchen. Bax, there, he's a sort o' gen'leman by natur' as well as hedication; but as for me I'm free to say as I prefers the fo'gs'l to the cabin—no offence meant. Come along, Tommy, and bring yer pannikin along with 'ee, lad, you're like a fish out o' water too."

So saying, Captain Bluenose bowed to the company with what he meant to be an affable and apologetic air, and quitted the room without waiting for a reply.

"Ah, Bluenose," said Mrs Laker, as her brother entered, cap in hand, and seated himself among the men of the "Nancy," who were doing full justice to Mrs Foster's hospitality, "I thought ye wouldn't be long in the parlour, for you aint bin used to 'igh life, an' w'y should you? as was born of poor but respectible parients, not but that the parients of the rich may be respectible also, I don't go for to impinge no one, sit down, Tommy, my dear child, only think! ee's bin 'alf drownded, an' 'is mother dead only two year next Whitsuntide; sit down, Tommy, wot'll ye 'ave?"

Tommy said he would have a bit of beef-steak pie;—got it, and set to work immediately.

It may be as well to state here that Mrs Laker was not a married woman, but, having reached a certain age, she deemed it advisable, in order to maintain the dignity of her character and personal appearance (which latter was stout and matronly) to dub herself Mrs—Laker being her maiden name. This statement involves a further explanation, inasmuch as it establishes the fact that Bluenose ought, in simple justice and propriety, to have gone by the name of Laker also.

But on the beach of Deal justice and propriety in regard to names are not necessarily held in great repute. At least they were not so a few years ago. Smuggling, as has been said, was rather prevalent in days gone by. Indeed, the man who was not a smuggler was an exception to the rule, if such a man ever existed. During their night expeditions, boatmen were often under the necessity of addressing each other in hoarse whispers, at times and in circumstances when coast-guard ears were uncommonly acute. Hence, in order to prevent inconvenient recognition, the men were wont to give each other nicknames, which nicknames descended frequently to their offspring.

The father of Captain Bluenose and of Mrs Laker had been a notorious scamp about the beginning of this century, at which period Deal may be said to have been in full swing in regard to smuggling and the French war. The old smuggler was uncommonly well acquainted with the towns of Calais, Gravelines, Dunkerque, Nieuport, and Ostende—notwithstanding that they lay in the enemy's country. He had also enough of bad French to enable him to carry on his business, and was addicted to French brandy. It was the latter circumstance which turned his nose purple; procuring for him, as well as entailing on his son, the name of Bluenose, a name which our Captain certainly did not deserve, seeing that his nose was fiery red in colour,—perhaps a little too fat to be styled classic, but, on the whole, a most respectable nose.

Few of the boatmen of Deal went by their right names; but such soubriquets as Doey, Jack Onion, Skys'lyard Dick, Mackerel, Trappy, Rodney Nick, Sugarplum, etcetera, were common enough. Perchance they are not obsolete at the present day!

While the crew of the "Nancy" were making merry in the kitchen, the parlour bell rang violently, and Laker disappeared from the scene.

"You're wanted, Tommy, darling," said the worthy woman, returning promptly.

Tommy rose and was ushered into the parlour.

"Little boy," said Mrs Foster, "my son Guy has sent a message requiring your attendance. I tried to prevent him seeing you; but he insists on it. Come, I will take you to his room. You must try, child, and not encourage him to talk. It will be bad for him, I fear."

"Leave us, mother, dear," said Guy, as they entered; "I wish to be alone with Tommy, only for ten minutes—not longer."

Mrs Foster tried to remonstrate, but an impatient gesture from her son induced her to quit the room.

"You can write, Tommy?"

"Yes, sir. I—I hope you ain't much hurt, sir?"

"Oh no!—a mere scratch. It's only the loss of blood that weakens me. I'll be all right in a few days. Now, sit down at that table and take a pen. Are you ready?"

Tommy said that he was, and Guy Foster dictated the following note to Mr Denham, of the house of Denham, Crumps, and Company:—

"Deal.

"Dear Uncle,—I'm sorry to have to inform you that the 'Nancy' has become a total wreck on the Goodwin Sands. The cargo has been entirely lost—also two of the hands.

"I am at present disabled, from the effects of a blow on the head received during the storm. No doubt Bax will be up immediately to give you particulars.

"The cause of the loss of your schooner was, in my opinion, unseaworthiness of vessel and stores.

"Your affectionate nephew, GUY FOSTER."

"Hallo!" thought Tommy, "that's a stinger!"

"There," said Guy, as he attached his signature, "fold and address that, and be off with it as fast as you can to the post."

Tommy vanished in an instant, and was quickly at the post-office, which stood, at that time, near the centre of the town. He dropped the letter in, and having thus fulfilled his mission, relapsed into that easy swagger or roll that seems to be the natural and characteristic gait of Jack when ashore. He had not proceeded far when the sound of voices in dispute attracted his ear. The gale was still at its height, and the noise occasioned by its whistling among the chimneys and whirling round street corners was so great that the words uttered by the speakers were not distinguishable. Still there was some peculiarity in the tone which irresistibly attracted the boy. Perhaps Tommy was unusually curious that night; perhaps he was smitten, like Haroun Alraschid, with a desire for adventure; but whatever was the truth in regard to this, it is certain that, instead of passing on, as most people would naturally have done, Tommy approached the place whence the sounds proceeded with cautious steps—keeping as much in the shade of the houses as possible, although owing to the darkness of the night, this latter precaution was unnecessary.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE LIVING LEFT AMONG THE DEAD—A WILD CHASE ON A WILD NIGHT STOPPED BY A GHOST.

On turning the corner of one of those houses on the beach of Deal which stand so close to the sea that in many cases they occupy common ground with the boats, Tommy found himself suddenly close to a group of men, one of whom, a very tall man, was addressing the others in an excited tone.

"I'll tell 'ee wot it is, lads, let's put 'im in a sack an' leave him in the Great Chapel Field to cool hisself." [The "Great Chapel Field" was the name formerly applied by the boatmen to Saint George's Churchyard.]

"Sarve him right, the beggar," said another man, with a low laugh, "he's spoilt our game many a night. What say, boys? heave 'im shoulder high?"

The proposal was unanimously agreed to, and the party went towards an object which lay recumbent on the ground, near to one of those large capstans which are used on this part of the Kentish coast to haul up the boats. The object turned out to be a man, bound hand and foot, and with a handkerchief tied round the mouth to insure silence. Tommy was so near that he had no difficulty in recognising in this unfortunate the person of old Coleman, the member of the coast-guard who had been most successful in thwarting the plans of the smugglers for some years past. Rendered somewhat desperate by his prying disposition, they had seized him on this particular night, during a scuffle, and were now about to dispose of him in a time-honoured way.

Tommy also discovered that the coast-guard-man's captors were Long Orrick, Rodney Nick, and a few more of his boatmen acquaintances. He watched them with much interest as they enveloped Coleman's burly figure in a huge sack, tied it over his head, and, raising him on their shoulders bore him away.

Tommy followed at a safe distance, but he soon stopped, observing that two of the party had fallen behind the rest, engaged apparently in earnest conversation. They stood still a few minutes under the lee of a low-roofed cottage. Tommy crept as close to them as possible and listened.

"Come, Rodney Nick," said one of the two, whose height proclaimed him to be Long Orrick, "a feller can't talk in the teeth o' sich a gale as this. Let's stand in the lee o' this old place here, and I'll tell ye in two minits wot I wants to do. You see that old sinner Jeph refuses pint-blank to let me use his 'hide;' he's become such a hypocrite that he says he won't encourage smugglin'."

"Well, wot then?" inquired Rodney Nick.

"W'y, I means to make 'im give in," returned Long Orrick.

"An' s'pose he won't give in?" suggested Rodney.

"Then I'll cut his throat," replied Orrick, fiercely.

"Then I'll have nothin' to do with it."

"Stop!" cried the other, seizing his comrade by the arm as he was turning to go away. "A feller might as well try to joke with a jackass as with you. In coorse I don't mean that; but I'll threaten the old hypocrite and terrify him till he's half dead, and then he'll give in."

"He's a frail old man," said Rodney; "suppose he should die with fright?"

"Then let him die!" retorted Long Orrick.

"Humph; and s'pose he can't be terrified?"

"Oh! get along with yer s'posin'. Will ye go or will ye not? that's the question, as Shukspere's ghost said to the Hemperer o' Sweden."

"Just you an' me?" inquired Rodney.

"Ain't we enough for an old man?"

"More nor enough," replied Rodney, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone, "if the old boy han't got friends with him. Don't ye think Bax might have took a fancy to spend the night there?"

"No," said Long Orrick; "Bax is at supper in Sandhill Cottage, and he ain't the man to leave good quarters in a hurry. But if yer afraid, we'll go with our chums to the churchyard and take them along with us."

Rodney Nick laughed contemptuously, but made no reply, and the two immediately set off at a run to overtake their comrades. Tommy Bogey followed as close at their heels as he prudently could. They reached the walls of Saint George's Church, or the "Great Chapel," almost at the same moment with the rest of the party.

The form of the old church could be dimly seen against the tempestuous sky as the smugglers halted under the lee of the churchyard wall like a band of black ghosts that had come to lay one of their defunct comrades, on a congenial night.

At the north end of the burying-ground of Saint George's Church there is a spot of ground which is pointed out to visitors as being the last resting-place of hundreds of the unfortunate men who fell in the sea-fights of our last war with France. A deep and broad trench was dug right across the churchyard, and here the gallant tars were laid in ghastly rows, as close together as they could be packed. Near to this spot stands the tomb of one of Lord Nelson's young officers, and beside it grows a tree against which Nelson is said to have leaned when he attended the funeral.

It was just a few yards distant from this tree that the smugglers scaled the wall and lifted over the helpless body of poor Coleman. They did it expeditiously and in dead silence. Carrying him into the centre of the yard, they deposited the luckless coast-guard-man flat on his back beside the tomb of George Philpot, a man who had done good service in his day and generation—if headstones are to be believed. The inscription, which may still be seen by the curious, runs thus:—

A TRIBUTE TO THE SKILL AND DETERMINED COURAGE OF THE BOATMEN OF DEAL, AND IN MEMORY OF GEORGE PHILPOT, WHO DIED MARCH 22, 1850.

"FULL MANY LIVES HE SAVED WITH HIS UNDAUNTED CREW; HE PUT HIS TRUST IN PROVIDENCE, AND CARED NOT HOW IT BLEW."

In the companionship of such noble dead, the smugglers left Coleman to his fate, and set off to finish their night's work at old Jeph's humble cottage.

Tommy Bogey heard them chuckle as they passed the spot where he lay concealed behind a tombstone, and he was sorely tempted to spring up with an unearthly yell, well knowing that the superstitious boatmen would take him for one risen from the dead, and fly in abject terror from the spot; but recollecting the importance of discretion in the work which now devolved on him, he prudently restrained himself.

The instant they were over the wall Tommy was at Coleman's side. He felt the poor man shudder, and heard him gasp as he cut the rope that tied the mouth of the sack; for Coleman knew well the spot to which they had conveyed him, and his face, when it became visible, was ghastly white and covered with a cold sweat caused by the belief that he was being opened out for examination by some inquisitive but unearthly visitor.

"It's only me," said Tommy with an involuntary laugh. "Hold on, I'll set you free in no time."

"Hah!" coughed Coleman when the kerchief was removed from his mouth, "wot a 'orrible sensation it is to be choked alive!"

"It would be worse to be choked dead," said Tommy.

"Cut the lines at my feet first, lad," said Coleman, "they've a'most sawed through my ankle bones. There, that's it now, help me to git up an' shake myself."

A few minutes elapsed before he recovered the full use of his benumbed limbs. During this period, the boy related all he had heard, and urged his companion to "look alive." But Coleman required no urging. The moment he became aware of what was going on he felt for his cutlass, which the smugglers had not taken the trouble to remove, and, slapping Tommy on the back, stumbled among the tombs and over the graves towards the wall, which he vaulted with a degree of activity that might have rendered a young man envious. Tommy followed like a squirrel, and in a very few minutes more they were close at the heels of Long Orrick and his friends.

While they hurried on in silence and with cautious tread Coleman matured his plans. It was absolutely necessary that the utmost circumspection should be used, for a man and a boy could not hope to succeed in capturing six strong men.

"Run, Tommy, to the beach and fetch a friend or two. There are sure to be two of the guard within hail."

Tommy was off, as he himself would have said, like a shot, and on gaining the beach almost ran into the arms of a young coast-guard-man named Supple Rodger, to whom he breathlessly told his tale.

"Stop, I'll call out the guard," said Rodger, drawing a pistol from the breast-pocket of his overcoat. But Tommy prevented him, explained that it was very desirable to catch the villains in the very act of breaking into old Jeph's cottage, and hurried him away.

At the back of the cottage they found Coleman calmly observing the proceedings of the smugglers, one of whom was calling in a hoarse whisper through the keyhole. Apparently he received no reply, for he swore angrily a good deal, and said to his comrades more than once, "I do b'lieve the old sinner's dead."

"Come, I'll burst in the door," said the voice of Long Orrick, savagely.

The words were followed by a crash; and the trampling of feet in the passage proved that the slender fastenings of the door had given way.

"Now, lads," cried Coleman, "have at 'em!"

He struck a species of port-fire, or bluelight, against the wall as he spoke; it sprang into a bright flame, and the three friends rushed into the cottage.

The smugglers did not wait to receive them. Bursting the fastenings of the front window Long Orrick leaped out into the street. Supple Rodger dashed aside the man who was about to follow and leaped after him like an avenging spirit. All the men but two were over the window before Coleman gained it. He seized the man who was in the act of leaping by the collar, but the treacherous garment gave way, and in a moment the smuggler was gone, leaving only a rag in Coleman's grasp.

Meanwhile Tommy flung himself down in front of the only man who now remained, as he made a dash for the window. The result was that the man tumbled over the boy and fell to the ground. Having accomplished this feat, Tommy leaped up and sprang through the window to aid in the chase. As the smuggler rose, the disappointed Coleman turned round, flourished the rag in the air with a shout of defiance, and hit his opponent between the eyes with such force as to lay him a second time flat on the floor. A fierce struggle now ensued, during which the light was extinguished. The alarmed neighbours found them there, a few minutes later, writhing in each other's arms, and punching each other's heads desperately; Coleman, however, being uppermost.

When Tommy Bogey leaped over the window, as has been described, all the smugglers had disappeared, and he was at a loss what to do; but the faint sound of quick steps at the north end of the street led him to run at the top of his speed in that direction. Tommy was singularly fleet of foot. He ran so fast on this occasion that he reached the end of the street before the fugitive had turned into the next one. He saw distinctly that two men were running before him, and, concluding that they were Long Orrick and Supple Rodger, he did his best to keep them in view.

Long Orrick and his pursuer were well matched as to speed. Both were good runners; but the former was much the stronger man. Counting on this he headed for the wild expanse of waste ground lying to the north of Deal, already mentioned as the sand hills.

Here he knew that there would be no one to interfere between him and his antagonist.

Tommy Bogey thought of this too, as he sped along, and wondered not a little at the temerity of Supple Rodger in thus, as it were, placing himself in the power of his enemy. He chuckled, however, as he ran, at the thought of being there to render him assistance to the best of his power. "Ha!" thought he, "for Long Orrick to wollop Supple Rodger out on the sandhills is one thing; but for Long Orrick to wallop Supple Rodger with me dancin' round him like a big wasp is quite another thing!"

Tommy came, as he thought thus, upon an open space of ground on which were strewn spare anchors and chain cables. Tumbling over a fluke of one of the former he fell to the earth with a shock that well-nigh drove all the wind out of his stout little body. He was up in a moment, however, and off again.

Soon the three were coursing over the downs like hares. It was difficult running, for the ground was undulating and broken, besides being covered in a few places with gorse, and the wind and rain beat so fiercely on their faces as almost to blind them.

About a mile or so beyond the ruins of Sandown Castle there is an old inn, called the "Checkers of the Hope," or "The Checkers," named after, it is said, and corrupted from, "Chaucer's Inn" at Canterbury. It stands in the midst of the solitary waste; a sort of half-way house between the towns of Sandwich and Deal; far removed from either, however, and quite beyond earshot of any human dwelling. This, so says report, was a celebrated resort of smugglers in days gone by, and of men of the worst character; and as one looks at the irregular old building standing, one might almost say unreasonably, in that wild place, one cannot help feeling that it must have been the scene of many a savage revelry and many a deed of darkness in what are sometimes styled "the good old times."

Some distance beyond this, farther into the midst of the sandhills, there is a solitary tombstone; well known, both by tradition and by the inscription upon it, as "Mary Bax's tomb."

Here Long Orrick resolved to make a stand; knowing that no shout that Rodger might give vent to could reach the Checkers in the teeth of such a gale.

The tale connected with poor Mary Bax is brief and very sad. She lived about the end of the last century, and was a young and beautiful girl. Having occasion to visit Deal, she set out one evening on her solitary walk across the bleak sandhills. Here she was met by a brutal foreign seaman, a Lascar, who had deserted from one of the ships then lying in the Downs. This monster murdered the poor girl and threw her body into a ditch that lies close to the spot on which her tomb now stands. The deed, as may well be supposed, created great excitement in Deal and the neighbourhood; for Mary Bax, being young, beautiful, and innocent, was well known and much loved.

There was, at the time this murder was perpetrated, a youth named John Winter, who was a devoted admirer of poor Mary. He was much younger than she, being only seventeen, while she was twenty-three. He became almost mad when he heard of the murder. A little brother of John Winter, named David, happened to be going to the Checkers' Inn at the time the murder was committed and witnessed it. He ran instantly to his brother to tell him what he had seen. It was chiefly through the exertions of these two that the murderer was finally brought to justice.

John Winter rested neither night nor day until he tracked the Lascar down, and David identified him. He was hanged on a gallows erected close to the spot where he murdered his innocent victim. On the exact spot where the murder took place Mary's grave was dug, and a tombstone was put up, which may be seen there at the present time, with the following inscription upon it:—

ON THIS SPOT, AUGUST THE 25TH 1782, MARY BAX, SPINSTER, AGED 23 YEARS, WAS MURDERED BY MARTIN LASH, A FOREIGNER, WHO WAS EXECUTED FOR THE SAME.

Poor John Winter left the country immediately after, and did not return until thirty years had elapsed, when the event was forgotten, and most of his old friends and companions were dead or gone abroad. His little brother David was drowned at sea.

This Mary Bax was cousin to the father of John Bax, who figures so conspicuously in our tale.

At the tomb of Mary Bax, then, as we have said, Long Orrick resolved to make a stand. Tommy Bogey had, by taking a short cut round a piece of marshy ground, succeeded in getting a little in advance of Orrick, and, observing that he was running straight towards the tombstone, he leaped into the ditch, the water in which was not deep at the time, and, coursing along the edge of it, reached the rear of the tomb and hid himself there, without having formed any definite idea as to what course he meant to pursue.

Whatever the intentions of the smuggler were, they were effectually frustrated by an apparition which suddenly appeared and struck terror alike to the heart of pursuer and pursued. As Long Orrick approached the tomb there suddenly arose from the earth a tall gaunt figure with silver hair streaming wildly in the gale. To Tommy, who crouched behind the tomb, and Rodger and Orrick, who approached in front, it seemed as if the spirit of the murdered girl had leaped out of the grave. The effect on all three was electrical. Orrick and Rodger, diverging right and left, fled like the wind in opposite directions, and were out of sight in a few seconds, while Tommy, crouching on the ground behind the tomb, trembled in abject terror.

The spirit, if such it was, did not attempt to pursue the fugitives, but turning fiercely towards the boy, seized him by the collar and shook him.

"Oh! mercy! mercy!" cried poor Tommy, whose heart quaked within him.

"Hallo! Tommy Bogey, is it you, boy?" said the spirit, releasing the lad from a grasp that was anything but gentle.

"What! old Jeph, can it be you?" exclaimed Tommy, in a tone of intense surprise, as he seated himself on the tombstone, and wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead with the cuff of his coat.

"Ay, it is me," replied the old man, sadly, "although I do sometimes doubt my own existence. It ain't often that I'm interrupted—but what brings ye here, lad, and who were these that I saw running like foul fiends across the sandhills on such a night as this?"

"They were Supple Rodger and Long Orrick," replied Tommy, "and a foul fiend is one of 'em, anyhow, as you'd have found out, old Jeph, if ye'd bin at home this evenin'. As for bein' out on sich a night as this, it seems to me ye han't got much more sense to boast of in this respect than I have. You'll ketch your death o' cold, old man."

"Old man!" echoed Jeph, with a peculiar chuckle. "Ha! yes, I am an old man, and I've bin used to such nights since I wos a young man. But come away, lad, I'll go home with ye now."

Old Jeph took the boy's hand as he said this, and the two went over the moor together—slowly, for the way was rough and broken, and silently, for the howling of the gale rendered converse almost impossible.

It is not to be supposed that Tommy Bogey had such command over himself, however, as altogether to restrain his curiosity. He did make one or two attempts to induce old Jeph to explain why he was out in such a stormy night, and on such a lonely spot; but the old man refused to be communicative, and finally put a stop to the subject by telling Tommy to let other people's business alone, and asking him how it happened that Long Orrick came to make an attempt on his house, and how it was he failed?

Tommy related all he knew with alacrity and for a time secured old Jeph's attention, as was plain from the way in which he chuckled when he heard how his enemy had been outwitted; but gradually the narrative fell on uninterested ears, and before they regained the town the old man's countenance had become grave and sad, and his mind was evidently wandering among the lights—mayhap among the shadows—of "other days."



CHAPTER NINE.

UNBUSINESSLIKE PROCEEDINGS IN "THE OFFICE"—PEEKINS GROWS DESPERATE AND TAKES REFUGE IN THE "THREE JOLLY TARS."

Mr Denham stood in front of his office fire with a coat-tail, as usual, under each arm; his feet planted on two little roses that grew on each side of a large bouquet which flourished perennially on his rug, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He had just arrived at Redwharf Lane, and looked quite fresh and ruddy from the exercise of walking, for Denham was a great walker, and frequently did the distance between his house and his office on foot.

Mr Crumps sat shivering in his own room, looking the reverse of ruddy, for Crumps was old and his blood was thin, and there was no fire in his room. It is but justice to say, however, that this was no fault of Denham's, for the apartment of his junior partner did not possess a fireplace, and it could not be expected that a fire should be lit, a la Red Indian, on the middle of the floor. At all events Crumps did not expect it. He was not, therefore, liable to disappointment in his expectations. He contented himself, poor old man, with such genial gusts of second-hand warmth as burst in upon him from time to time from Denham's room when the door was open, or poured in upon him in ameliorating rivulets through the keyhole, like a little gulf-stream, when the door was shut.

"The letters, sir," said Peekins, the meek blue tiger in buttons, entering at that moment and laying a pile of letters on the table.

Had Peekins been a little dog without a soul, capable of wagging his tail and fawning, Denham would have patted him, but, being only a boy in blue with a meek spirit, the great man paid no attention to him whatever. He continued to gaze at the ceiling as if he were reading his destiny there. Perhaps he would have looked as blank as the ceiling had he known what that destiny was to be; but he did not know, fortunately (or unfortunately, if the reader chooses), hence he turned with a calm undisturbed countenance to peruse his letters after the boy had retired.

We do not say that Denham was a hard man; by no means; he was only peculiar in his views of things in general; that was all!

For some time Denham broke seals, read contents, and made jottings, without any expression whatever on his countenance. Presently he took up an ill-folded epistle addressed to "Mister Denham" in a round and rather rugged hand.

"Begging," he muttered with a slight frown.

"'Dear Uncle' ('eh!' he exclaimed,—turned over the leaf in surprise, read the signature, and turned back to the beginning again, with the least possible tinge of surprise still remaining), 'I'm sorry' (humph) 'to have to inform you that the Nancy has become a total wreck,' ('indeed!') 'on the Goodwin Sands.' ('Amazing sands these. What a quantity of wealth they have swallowed up!') 'The cargo has been entirely lost,'—('ah! it was insured to its full value,') 'also two of the hands.' ('H'm, their lives wouldn't be insured. These rough creatures never do insure their lives; wonderfully improvident!') 'I am at present disabled, from the effects of a blow on the head received during the storm.' (Very awkward; particularly so just now.) 'No doubt Bax will be up immediately to give you particulars.'" (Humph!)

"'The cause of the loss of your schooner was, in my opinion,' (Mr Denham's eyebrows here rose in contemptuous surprise), 'unseaworthiness of vessel and stores.'"

Mr Denham made no comment on this part of the epistle. A dark frown settled on his brow as he crumpled the letter in his hand, dropped it on the ground as if it had been a loathsome creature, and set his foot on it.

Denham was uncommonly gruff and forbidding all that day. He spoke harshly to old Mr Crumps; found fault with the clerks to such an extent, that they began to regard the office as a species of Pandemonium which ought to have smelt sulphurous instead of musty; and rendered the life of Peekins so insupportable that the poor boy occupied his few moments of leisure in speculating on the average duration of human life and wondering whether it would not be better, on the whole, to make himself an exception to the general rule by leaping off London Bridge at high water—blue-tights, buttons, and all!

Things continued in this felicitous condition in the office until five in the afternoon, when there was a change, not so much in the moral as in the physical atmosphere. It came in the form of a thick fog, which rolled down the crooked places of Redwharf Lane, poured through keyholes, curled round the cranes on the warehouses, and the old anchors, cables, and buoys in the lumber-yards; travelled over the mudflats, and crept out upon the muddy river among the colliers, rendering light things indistinct, black things blacker, dark places darker, and affording such an opportunity for unrestrained enjoyment to the rats, that these creatures held an absolute carnival everywhere.

About this period of the day Mr Denham rose, put on his hat and greatcoat, and prepared to go. Peekins observed this through a private scratch in the glass door, and signalised the gladsome news in dumb-show to his comrades. Hope at once took the place of despair in the office, for lads and very young men are happily furnished with extremely elastic spirits. The impulse of joy caused by the prospect of Denham's departure was so strong in the breast of one youth, with red hair, a red nose, red cheeks, large red lips, blue eyes, and red hands (Ruggles by name), that he incontinently seized a sheet of blotting-paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flung it at the head of the youngest clerk, a dark little boy, who sat opposite to him on a tall stool, and who, being a new boy, was copying letters painfully but diligently with a heavy heart.

The missile was well aimed. It hit the new boy exactly on the point of the nose, causing him to start and prolong the tail of a y an inch and a quarter beyond its natural limits.

This little incident would not have been worth mentioning but for the fact that it was the hinge, so to speak, on which incidents of a more important nature turned. Mr Denham happened to open his door just as the missile was discharged and saw the result, though not the thrower. He had no difficulty, however, in discovering the offender; for each of the other clerks looked at their comrade in virtuous horror, as though to say, "Oh! how could you?—please, sir, it wasn't me, it was him;" while Ruggles applied himself to his work with an air of abstraction and a face of scarlet that said plainly, "It's of no use staring in that fashion at me, for I'm as innocent as the unborn babe."

Denham frowned portentously, and that peculiarly dead calm which usually precedes the bursting of a storm prevailed in the office. Before the storm burst, however, the outer door was opened hastily and our friend Bax stood in the room. He was somewhat dishevelled in appearance, as if he had travelled fast. To the clerks in that small office he appeared more fierce and gigantic than usual. Peekins regarded him with undisguised admiration, and wondered in his heart if Jack the Giant-Killer would have dared to encounter such a being, supposing him to have had the chance.

"I'm glad I am not too late to find you here, sir," said Bax, puffing off his hat and bowing slightly to his employer.

"Humph!" ejaculated Denham, "step this way."

They entered the inner office, and, the door being shut, Ruggles internally blessed Bax and breathed freely. Under the influence of reaction he even looked defiant.

"So you have lost your schooner," began Denham, sitting down in his chair of state and eyeing the seaman sternly. Bax returned the gaze so much more sternly that Denham felt disconcerted but did not allow his feelings to betray themselves.

"The schooner has been lost," said Bax, "and I am here to report the fact and to present these letters, one from the seamen's missionary at Ramsgate, the other from your nephew, both of which will show you that no blame attaches to me. I regret the loss, deeply, but it was un—"

Bax was going to have said unavoidable, but he felt that the expression would have been incorrect, and stopped.

"Finish your remark," said Denham.

"I merely wished to say that it was out of my power to prevent it."

"Oh!" interjected Denham, sarcastically, as he read the letters. "The seamen's missionary is one of whom I know nothing. His opinion, therefore, carries no weight. As to my nephew, his remarks are simply unworthy of notice. But you say that no blame attaches to you. To whom then does blame attach, if not to the skipper of the vessel? Do you mean to lay it at the door of Providence?"

"No, sir, I do not," replied Bax.

"Have you, then, the presumption to insinuate that it lies with me?"

Bax was silent.

"Am I to expect an answer?" said Denham.

"I make no insinuations," said Bax, after a short pause; "I do but state facts. If the 'Nancy' had been fitted with a new tops'l-yard and jib-boom, as I advised last summer, I would have carried her safe into the Downs."

"So," said Denham, in a tone of increasing sarcasm, "you have the hardihood to insinuate that it was my fault?"

Bax reddened with indignation at the tone of insult in which these words were uttered. His bass voice grew deeper and sterner as he said:—

"If you insist on plain speaking, sir, you shall have it. I do think the blame of the loss of the 'Nancy' lies at your door, and worse than that, the loss of two human lives lies there also. There was not a sound timber or a seaworthy article aboard of the schooner from stem to stern. You know well enough that I have told you this,—in more civil language it may be,—again and again; and I hope that the telling of it now, flatly, will induce you to consider the immense responsibility that lies on your shoulders; for there are other ships belonging to your firm in much the same condition—ships with inferior charts and instruments, unsound spars, not enough of boats, and with anchors and chains scarce powerful enough to hold a Deal lugger in a moderate gale."

Mr Denham was not prepared for this sudden and wholesale condemnation of himself and his property. He gazed at the seaman's flushed countenance for a few seconds in mute surprise. At last he recovered self-possession, and said in a calm voice—

"You applied last year, if I remember rightly, for the situation of mate aboard our ship the 'Trident'—now on her second voyage from Australia?"

"I did," said Bax, shortly, not knowing how to take this sudden change of subject.

"Do you suppose," said Denham, with a peculiar curl of his lip, "that this interview will tend to improve your chance of obtaining that situation?"

Denham put the question with the full expectation of humbling Bax, and with the further intention of following up his reply with the assurance that there was much greater probability of the moon being turned into green cheese than of his promotion taking place; but his intentions were frustrated by Bax starting, and, in a voice of indignation, exclaiming—"Sir, do you suppose I have come here to beg? If you were to offer me the command of the 'Trident,' or any other ship that you possess, I would refuse it with scorn. It is bad enough to risk one's life in the rotten craft you send to sea; but that would be nothing compared with the shame of serving a house that thinks only of gain, and holds human life cheaper than the dirt I tread under my feet. No, sir; I came here to explain how the 'Nancy' was lost. Having done so, I take my leave."

"Stay," said Denham, as Bax turned to go. "Perhaps you will do me one more service before we part. Will you kindly inform my nephew that he need not be in a hurry to come back here. I extend his leave. He may continue to absent himself as long as he pleases—to all eternity if it suits him."

Mr Denham flushed up with anger as he said the last words. Bax, without deigning a reply, turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the glass-door behind him with such violence that every panel in it was shivered to atoms! He wheeled round and re-entered the room. Denham grew pale, supposing that the roused giant was about to assault him; but Bax only pointed to the door, and said sternly—"Part of the wages due me will pay for that. You can keep the balance, and buy yourself a Bible with it."

Next moment he was gone, and Peekins stood staring at his master through the shattered door, trembling from head to foot. Immediately afterwards Denham took his hat and stick, and passed through the office. Pausing at the door he looked back:—

"Ruggles."

"Yes, sir."

"There are five or six foreign letters in my desk for tomorrow's post. Copy them out to-night. See that you do it to-night. Peekins will remain with you, and lock up after you have done."