the monks cove raid was not an unmixed success. the bag was very slight and the ringleader got clear away. mr. carmichael’s impetuosity was responsible for this. the riding officer was annoyed with him; he wished he would go home to ireland and get drowned in a bog. had any other officer been in charge of the soldiers they would have made a fine coup; at the same time, he reflected that had any one else commanded, the soldiers would not have been there at all. there were two sides to it. he consoled himself with the thought that, although the material results were small, the morale of the monks cove free traders had suffered a severe jolt; at any rate, he hoped so. at the outset things had promised well. it was true that the cornet had only mustered thirty-one sabers instead of forty (and two of these managed to drop out between penzance and paul), but they had reached the cliff-top not more than fifty minutes behind schedule, to find the picket trussed up like a boiled chicken and all clear.
carmichael led the way down the sheep-path; he insisted on it. “an officer’s place is at the head of his men,” he chanted. the sentiment is laudable, but he led altogether too fast. seventeen and carrying nothing but his sword, he gamboled down the craggy path with the agility of a chamois. his troopers, mainly elderly heroes, full of beer (they had been dragged blaspheming out of taverns just as they were settling down to a comfortable evening) and burdened with accoutrements, followed with all the caution due to their years and condition. the result was that carmichael arrived at the base alone.
he crouched behind the corner of the pilchard shed and listened. the place was alive. it was inky dark; he could see nothing, but he could hear well enough.
“he-ave, a’. up she goes! stan’ still, my beauty! fast on that side, jan? lead on, you!”
“bessie kate, bessie kate, bring a hank o’ rope; this pack’s slippin’.”
“whoa, mare, blast ’e! come along wid that there lot, zacky; want to be here all night, do ’e?”
“next horse. pass the word for more horses . . . ahoy there . . . horses.”
grunts of men struggling with heavy objects, subdued exhortations, complaints, oaths, laughter, women’s chatter, hoof beats, the shrill ki-yi of a trampled dog. the darkness ahead was boiling with invisible people, smugglers all and engaged on their unlawful occupations.
carmichael’s hackles stood on end. he gripped his sword.
“is that all?” a voice called, louder, more authoritative than the rest. “get them horses away then.”
the voice was referring to the boat-load, but the cornet thought the whole run was through. in a minute the last horse would be off and he would lose the capture. without looking to see how many of his men had collected behind him he shouted “huzza!” and plunged into the thick of it. death! glory!
he plunged head-first into uncle billy clemo’s daughter-in-law, butting her over backwards. she clutched out to save herself, clutched him round the neck and took him with her. she lay on the ground, still grasping the cornet to her, and screamed her loudest. mr. carmichael struggled frantically; here was a pretty situation for a great military genius at the onset of his first battle! the woman had the hug of a she-bear, but his fury gave him the strength of ten. he broke her grip and plunged on, yelling to his men to fire. the only two who were present obeyed, but as he had neglected to tell them what to fire at they very prudently fired into the air.
the cornet plunged on, plunged into somebody, shouted to the somebody to stop or be hewn limb from limb. the somebody fled pursued by carmichael, turned at bay opposite a lighted window and he saw it was a woman. another woman! death and damnation! were there nothing but damnation women in this damnation maze?
he spun about and galloped back, crashed into something solid—a man at last!—launched out at him. his sword met steel, a sturdy wrist-snapping counter, and flipped out of his hand.
“s’render!” boomed the voice of his own servant. “stand or i’ll carve your heart out, you . . . oh, begging your pardon, sir, i’m sure.”
carmichael cursed him, picked up his sword again and rushed on. by the sound of their feet and breathing he knew there were people, scores of them, scurrying hither and thither about him in the blank darkness, but though he challenged and clutched and smote with the flat of his sword he met with nothing—nothing but thin air. it was like playing blindman’s buff with ghosts. he heard two or three ragged volleys in the direction of the sea and galloped towards it, galloped into a cul-de-sac between two cottages, nearly splitting his head against a wall. he was three minutes fumbling his way out of that, blubbering with rage, but this time he came out on the sea-front.
gun-flashes on the slip-head showed him where his men were (firing at a boat or something), and he ran towards them cheering, tripped across a spar and fell headlong over the cliff. it was only a miniature cliff, a bank of earth merely, not fifteen feet high, with mixed sand and bowlders beneath.
the cornet landed wallop on the sand and lay there for some minutes thinking he was dead and wondering what style of monument (if any) his parents would erect to his memory:—
“hic jacet william shine carmichael, cornet of his majesty’s dragoons, killed while gallantly leading an attack on smugglers. militavi non sine gloria. aged 17.”
aged only seventeen; how sad! he shed a tear to think how young he was when he died and then slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps he wasn’t quite dead—only stunned—only half-stunned—hardly stunned at all.
a stray shot went wailing eerily out to sea. his men were in action; he must go to them. he tried to get up, but found his left leg was jammed between two bowlders, and, tug as he might, he could not dislodge it. he shouted for help. nobody took any notice. again and again he shouted. no response. he laid his curly head down on the wet sand and with his tears wetted it still further. when at length (a couple of hours later) he was liberated it was by two of the smuggler ladies. they were most sympathetic, bandaged his sprained ankle, gave him a hot drink to revive his circulation and vowed it was a shame to send pretty boys of his age out so late.
poor mr. carmichael!
eli and bohenna were the first to load, and consequently led the pack-train which was strung out for a quarter of a mile up the valley waiting for ortho. when they heard the shots go off in the cove they remembered king nick’s standing orders and scattered helter-skelter up the western slope. there were only three side-tracks and thirty-two horses to be got up. this caused jamming and delay.
the sergeant at the track-head heard the volleys as well, and, not having the least regard for mr. carmichael’s commandments, pushed on to see the fun. fortunately for the leaders the chaotic state of the track prevented him from pushing fast. as it was he very nearly blundered into the tail end of the train. a mule had jibbed and stuck in the bushes, refusing to move either way. eli and two young hernes tugged, pushed and whacked at it. suddenly, close beside, they heard the wild slither of iron on stone, a splash and the voice of a man calling on heaven to condemn various portions of his anatomy. it was the sergeant; his horse had slipped up, depositing him in a puddle. he remounted and floundered on with his squad, little knowing that in the bushes that actually brushed his knee was standing a loaded mule with three tense boys clinging to its ears, nose and tail to keep it quiet. it was a close call.
eli took charge of the pack train. he was terribly anxious about ortho, but hanging about and letting the train be taken would only make bad worse, and ortho had an uncanny knack of slipping out of trouble. he felt sure that if anybody was arrested it would not be his brother.
king nick had thought of everything. in case of a raid by mounted men who could pursue it would be folly to go on to st. just. they were to hide their goods at some preordained spot, hasten home and lie doggo.
the preordained spot was the “fou-gou,” an ancient british dwelling hidden in a tangle of bracken a mile to the northwest, a subterranean passage roofed with massive slabs of granite, lined with moss and dripping with damp, the haunt of badgers, foxes and bats. by midnight eli had his cargo stowed away in that dark receptacle thoughtfully provided by the rude architects of the stone age, and by one o’clock he was at home in bed prepared to prove he had never left it. but he did not sleep, tired as he was. two horses had not materialized, and where was ortho? if he had escaped he should have been home by now . . . long ago. the gale made a terrific noise, moaning and buffeting round the house; it must be awful at sea.
where was ortho?
eli might just as well have taken his goods through to st. just for all the dragoons cared. had the french landed that night they would have made no protest. they would have drunk their very good healths.
when the sergeant and his detachment, the snow at their backs, finally stumbled into monks cove it was very far from a scene of battle and carnage that met their gaze. “homely” would better describe it. the cottages were lit up and in them lounged the troopers, attended by the genial fisher-folk in artistic déshabillé, in the clothes in which they, at that moment, had arisen from bed (so they declared). the warriors toasted their spurs at the hearths and drank to everybody’s everlasting prosperity.
the sergeant made inquiries. what luck?
none to speak of. four fifths of the train was up the valley when they broke in, and got away easily. that little whelp carmichael had queered the show, charging and yapping. where was he now? oh, lying bleating under the cliff somewhere. pshaw! let him lie a bit and learn wisdom, plaguy little louse! have a drink, god bless us.
they caught nothing then?
why, yes, certainly they had. four prisoners and two horses. two of the prisoners had since escaped, but no matter, the horses hadn’t, and they carried the right old stuff—gin and brandy. that was what they were drinking now. mixed, it was a lotion fit to purge the gullet of the great mogul. have a drink, lord love you!
the sergeant was agreeable.
it was not before dawn that these stalwarts would consent to be mustered. they clattered back to penzance in high fettle, joking and singing. some of the younger heads (recruits only) were beginning to ache, but the general verdict was that it had been a very pleasant outing.
mr. carmichael rode at their head. his fettle was not high. his ankle was most painful and so were his thoughts. fancy being rescued by a pair of damnation girls! moreover, two or three horses were going lame; what would jope say to him when he returned—and hambro? brrh! soldiering wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
mr. curral rode at the tail of the column. he too was a dejected man. that silly little fool of a carmichael had bungled the haul of the year, but he didn’t expect the collector would believe it; he was sure to get the blame. he and his poacher had captured two horses to have them taken from them by the troopers, the tubs broached and the horses let go. dragoons!—they had known what discipline was in the horse guards! it was too late to go to bosula or the gypsy camp now; all tracks would have been covered up, no evidence. the prisoners had by this time dwindled to a solitary youth whom curral suspected of being a half-wit and who would most assuredly be acquitted by a cornish jury. he sighed and sucked the head of his whip. it was a hard life.
phineas eva, parish clerk of st. gwithian, came to call on teresa one afternoon shortly after the catastrophe. he was dressed in his best, which was not very good, but signified that it was a visit of importance.
he twittered some platitudes about the weather, local and foreign affairs—the american colonists were on the point of armed rebellion, he was creditably informed—tut, tut! but meeting with no encouragement from his hostess he dwindled into silence and sat perched on the edge of the settle, blinking his pale eyes and twitching his hat in his rheumatic claws. teresa seemed unaware of his presence. she crouched motionless in her chair, chin propped on knuckles, a somber, brooding figure.
phineas noted that her cheeks and eyelids were swollen, her raven hair hanging in untidy coils, and feared she had been roistering again. if so she would be in an evil mood. she was a big, strong woman, he a small, weak man. he trembled for his skin. still he must out with it somehow, come what might. there was his wife to face at the other end, and he was no less terrified of his wife. he must out with it. of the two it is better to propitiate the devil you live with than the devil you don’t. he hummed and hawed, squirmed on his perch, and then with a gulp and a splutter came out with it.
his daughter tamsin was in trouble, and ortho was the cause. he had to repeat himself twice before teresa would take any notice, and then all she did was to nod her head.
phineas took courage; she had neither sworn nor pounced at him. he spoke his piece. of course ortho would do the right thing by tamsin; she was a good girl, a very good girl, docile and domestic, would make him an excellent wife. ortho was under a cloud at present, but that would blow over—king nick had powerful influence and stood by his own. parson coverdale of st. just was always friendly to the free traders; he would marry them without question. he understood ortho was in hiding among the st. just tinners; it would be most convenient. he . . . teresa shook her head slowly.
not at st. just? then he had been blown over to scilly after all. oh, well, as soon as he could get back parson coverdale would . . . again teresa shook her head.
not at scilly! then where was he? up country?
teresa rose out of her chair and looked phineas full in the face, stood over him, hair hanging loose, puffy, obese yet withal majestic, tragic beyond words. something in her swollen eyes made him quail, but not for his own skin, not for himself.
“a fowey newfoundlander put into newlyn pools morning,” she said, and her voice had a husky burr. “ten leagues sou’west of the bishop they found the gamecock of monks cove—bottom up.”
phineas gripped the edge of the settle and sagged forward. “then . . .!”
“yes,” said teresa. “drowned. go home and tell that to your daughter. an’ tell her she’ve got next to her heart the only li’l’ livin’ spark of my lovely boy that’s left in this world. she’m luckier nor i.”
