on a frosty night, when george iii was king, certain men, for the most part familiar customers, sat in the bar of the “golden anchor,” daleham; and amongst them appeared that welcome addition to the usual throng: a stranger. for his benefit old tales were told anew and ancient memories ransacked; because this west country fishing village enjoyed rich encrustation of legend and romance, and boasted a roll call of great names and great deeds. here dwelt the spirits of bygone free-traders, visible by night in the theatre of their lawless enterprises; and here even more notable stories, touching more notable phantoms, might also be gleaned from ancient intelligencers at the time of evening drinking.
the newcomer listened grimly to matters now much exercising daleham. he was a hard-faced man with a blue chin and black eyes, whose short, double-breasted jacket, wide breeches, glazed hat and pigtail marked a seafarer.
p. 326“as for ghostes,” he said, “can’t swear i’ve ever seed one, but no sailor-man, as have witnessed the lord’s wonders in the deep, would dare to doubt ’em.”
“just picture a whole throng, my dear!”
john cramphorn spoke. he was an ancient fisher, and his face might have stood for the apostle peter’s; but it quite gave the lie to his character, for this venerable man was hand in glove with the smugglers, had himself been a free-trader of renown, and now very gladly placed his wit and experience at the command of the younger generation. no word was ever whispered against him openly, and yet the rumour ran that johnny had his share of every cargo successfully run upon these coasts, and that he was the guiding spirit ashore, while “merry jonathan,” or jonathan godbeer of daleham, captained on the water that obscure body known as the daleham free-traders.
with such a sailor as jonathan afloat and such a wise-head as mr. cramphorn at home, the local smugglers earned a measure of fame that reached even to the revenue. indeed, at the moment of this story’s opening, the little fishing village, with uneasy pride, was aware that a preventive officer had been appointed for its especial chastisement and control; but none feared the issue. every woman and child at daleham knew that it would p. 327task men of uncommon metal with hard heads and thick skulls to lay their local champions by the heels.
“ess,” said the white-bearded cramphorn, “ghostes of men an’ ghostes of hosses tu. ban’t many parishes as can shaw ’e such a brave turnout of holy phantoms, i lay. you might have seed that ruin in the fir trees ’pon top of the cliff as you comed down the hill p’raps? wheer the fishermen’s gardens be. well, ’twas a famous mansion in the old days, though now sinked to a mere landmark for mackerel boats. but the stapledons lived theer in times agone, an’ lorded it awver all the land so far as dartymouth, ’tis thought. of course they died like theer neighbours, an’ many a brave funeral passed out-along wheer i grow my bit of kale to-day. yet no account taken till theer comed the terrible business of lady emma stapledon—poor soul. her was ordered by her cold-hearted faither to marry a lunnon man for his money—a gay young youth of gert renown, an’ as big a rip as ever you see, an’ a very evil character, but thousands of pounds in the bank to soften people’s minds. her wouldn’t take him, however, an’ peaked an’ pined, till at last—two nights afore the marriage-day—her went out alone along that dangerous edge of cliff what be named the devil’s tight-rope. in charity us’ll say the poor maiden’s foot slipped, though if it did, p. 328why for should her funeral walk ever since when january comes round? anyway it shows her had christian burial no doubt, an’ the funeral can be seen evermore—hosses an’ men, hearse an’ coffin. every moony night in january it may be marked stealin’ like a fog awver the tilth by the old road from the ruined gates; an’ to see it only axes a pinch of faith in the beholder. i’ve watched it scores o’ dozens o’ times—all so black as sin an’ silent as the grave. my sweat falled like rain fust time i seed it, but i minded how the lord looks arter his awn. of course an honest, church-going man’s out o’ the reach o’ ghostes.”
mr. cramphorn stopped and buried his beautiful roman nose in some rum and water. then mrs. pearn, mistress of the “golden anchor,” mended the fire, and a man, sitting in the ingle, asked a question.
“where’s jenifer to? ’tis late for her to be out alone.”
the old woman answered:—
“gone up the hill for green stuff. her laughs at all you silly men. i told her how ’twas the time for lady emma’s death-coach; but her said so long as they didn’t want her to get in an’ sit along wi’ she, her’d not mind no death-coaches, nor ghostes neither.”
“’tis very unseemly for a maid to talk so,” p. 329declared the stranger, gravely. “them as flout spirits often have to pay an ugly reckoning.”
others were also of this mind and mr. cramphorn gave instances.
“my stars! you’m makin’ me cream with fear, i’m sure,” said mrs. pearn, after supping full on their horrid recollections; “best to go up the hill, jonathan godbeer, an’ find the wench. ’tis your work, seeing you’m tokened to her.”
the stranger started and cast a sharp glance where sat the man addressed. merry jonathan was a tall and square-built sailor with a curly head and an eye that looked all people squarely in the face. a crisp beard served to hide his true expression, and the cloak of a smile, usually to be found upon his lips, concealed the tremendous determination of his countenance. indeed he habitually hid behind a mask of loud and somewhat senseless laughter. but those who served him at his secret work and in times of peril, knew a different jonathan, not to be described as “merry.” now the man rose and grinned at the stranger amiably until his grey eyes were quite lost in rays of crinkled skin. he out-stared the other seafarer, as he made it a rule to out-stare all men; then he prepared to obey his future mother-in-law.
“mustn’t let my sweetheart be drove daft by—” he began, when the inn door opened and a girl, p. 330with her hair fallen down her back and a terrified white face, appeared and almost dropped into godbeer’s arms. “gude powers! what’s the matter, my dear maid?” he cried. “who’ve hurt ’e? who’ve dared? tell your jonathan an’ he’ll smash the man like eggshells—if ’tis a man.”
jenifer clung to him hysterically and her teeth chattered. they took her to the fire and her mother brought a tumbler of spirits and water at mr. cramphorn’s direction.
“oh my god, i knawed how ’twould be,” wailed the old woman. “her’ve seed what her didn’t ought, an’ now her’ll suffer for it!”
jenifer was on her lover’s lap by the fire and tears at last came to her eyes. then she wept bitterly and found her tongue.
“put your arm around me,” she said; “close—close—jonathan. i’ve seed it—lady emma’s death-coach—creeping awver the frozen ground up-along. it passed wi’in ten yards of where i was cutting cabbages, an’ never such cold i felt. it have got to my heart an’ i’ll die—i knaw it.”
“you might have been mistook, young woman,” said the blue-muzzled man, civilly; but she shook her head.
“a gert hearse wi’ feathers an’ a tall man in front, an’ four hosses all blacker’n the fir-wood they comed from. an’ the moonlight shone through ’em where p. 331they moved away to the churchyard; an’ i fainted, i reckon, then come to an’ sped away afore they returned.”
“they’d have been there again in an hour or two,” declared old cramphorn. “that’s the way of it. ten o’clock or so they sets out, an’ back they come by midnight or thereabouts.”
then the stranger rose to retire, but before doing so he declared his identity.
“i may tell you, neighbours, that i be the preventive officer sent to work along with the cutter from dartmouth. my name be robert bluett, an’ i’m an old man-o’-war’s man an’ a west countryman likewise. an’ i look to every honest chap amongst ’e to help me in the king’s name against lawbreakers. so all’s said.”
a murmur ran through the company.
“question is what be honest an’ what ban’t. things ban’t dishonest ’cause parliament says so,” growled a long-faced, sour man. “free tradin’s the right answer to wrongful laws, an’ ’tis for them up-along to mend justice, not rob us.”
jonathan godbeer, however, stoutly applauded mr. bluett.
“i be just a simple fisherman myself,” he said; “but what i can do against they french rascals i will do. you may count upon me.”
mr. bluett regarded johnny cramphorn and saw p. 332that the patriarch’s eyes were fixed on godbeer and full of amazement.
“you to say that!” he murmured, “you—when us all knows—but ban’t no business of mine, thank the lord. at least you may count upon an old man to stand by the king and his lawful laws, same as i always have and always will so long as i be spared.”
riotous laughter greeted these noble sentiments, and bluett, vaguely aware that the company laughed as much with the ancient as at him, departed to bed. he was staying at the “golden anchor” until his lodgment at daleham should be ready for him.
